Birthday Betch

By BrokeBot

Today I'm 27 years old and as a gift to myself as I enter my return of Saturn, I'm enjoying some quality 4am self reflection time. I'm also enjoying a coffee-almond-maca-cashew juice. Keep 'em comin' all day, garcon (there is no garcon).

This has been a year of colossal change for me, soon to be followed by -- I hope -- colossal growth. In July, I found a shiny new job, and to be perfectly honest, I've been too dazzled by said coruscating newness to truly assess what sort of person I am now, as I move about my strange days. It's probably worth mentioning that my job isn't just a job, but rather a wholly self-defining, passion-melding, blood and guts and sweat and tears and sleeplessness kind of job. It's the job I've always wanted, with a crew to match. This terrifies me daily.

On some level, I've always aspired to be famous -- or not famous; known. I've aspired to send my aesthetic, my endlessly reverberating ruminations, my self-diagnosed raison d'etre out there, for all to see. I've sought to be admired, certainly, but more than that, I've sought to be understood. When I devour an interview with one of my glamorous, accomplished peers, I latch onto the subject's inspirations, motivations, obsessions... I guess I want people to care about what drives me because that would mean that I'm contributing something of value, or at least living a life worth emulating, which to me is the same thing. Art is life and vice versa. Someone important said that.

Someone important also said "everyday I'm hustling," (okay, that was Rick Ross. Whatever.) and that's real life. In truth, I don't know if I'll ever be satisfied with where I am relative to where my idols are... given that I'm now living in that Soho House, be your own brand, work your connections world where all my idols live and I haven't wasted much time patting myself on the back about it. I'm grateful and I'm getting there, but I'm not fine yet. In the pith of my bones, I'm still starving. This year, I'd like to wake up one morning and acknowledge that I deserve a rest and an aforementioned pat on the back. From myself. And that knowledge doesn't come from hustling, no matter what I tell myself. That knowledge comes from character.

I'd like every action I take to reflect the person I want to be, obviously. But sometimes I'm a total butthead. Sometimes I'm hungry or reeling from my insomniac tendencies (let's see how today goes) or I've spent too much time working and not enough time yoga-ing or properly loving those dear to me and I turn into a giant monster baby. I'm better when I'm balanced -- less of a monster baby, I mean -- and I need to take care of myself and nurture my creative spirit so that I can be fine. So that I don't lose sight of the fact that I'm more than my goals -- that I don't have to constantly be going somewhere: that in some ways, I've already arrived.

But for now -- hi. I'm on my way. Happy birthday, me.

XOXO,
Rose