Have you ever heard somebody say, “He was the man of my life,” or “She was the woman of my life,” – it’s a phrase that’s stuck with me after a conversation that Pedro and I had a while ago. I began to wonder who the woman of my life was and if she was this amazing, impressive woman or somebody more humble and close to home, perhaps she was somebody in the media who I had never met or even a teacher that I once saw as an auntie-figure. But then I dug deeper: maybe she was the woman who spends endless hours scrolling through Instagram, wears her favourite pair of trousers perhaps a little bit too much and listens to Top 100 playlists to feel good. Perhaps she has even fallen into blogger stereotypes and is the annoying friend at the dinner table snapping 50 photos before everyone can eat and maybe – just maybe: she’s me.
I feel like it’s an unfair pressure to select a specific person as the love of my life or the woman or man of my life, and even though I had the love of my life kindly handed to me and it’s not something I worry about at all, after the conversation about who the man or who the woman of each others lives is, I couldn’t shake the fact that the only woman in this world who I aspire to be like, is myself. The woman who has made the most impact on my life, is the woman directing it and living it, because although my mum is a queen and carried me for nine months, she is her own person and she’s amazing and funny and cool but she’s encouraging and selfless, to the point where she’s made me realise that the only person in this world I truly want to be like, truly want to strive to be and achieve things for: is myself. So although yes, I’m grateful to my mum and I love her dearly, she is not the woman of my life – she made me the woman of my life.
The same goes for my writing: Who am I writing for? Whilst I know that deep down, I’m writing for the reader to have something to enjoy, when I’m penning out pieces that are coming from the heart and the depths of my over thinking, I’m having it out with myself: I’m making conclusions and choices, writing words whether they’re light hearted fashion fluff or deeper more thought out pieces such as this, the reality of it is that the woman that I’m writing for is myself. I don’t read my words back but as I’m writing them I can feel the pressure of what’s been on my mind evaporating into thin air, and if someone wants to enjoy reading me have this tango with myself – then come along and have a read too.
It’s all the same to me though: the woman that I write for, the woman that I want to become and the woman that I am. I often think about the other version of myself, the one who didn’t go to college and instead stayed on at sixth form and perhaps even went to university, the one who had loads of friends and set up a Tinder profile because the men I knew were too boring – and how I’m glad I didn’t become that woman. Although she would’ve learned lessons of her own, created aspirations and dreams for herself and maybe even had better blonde hair than I had before which is long and wavy and shiny and doesn’t need to be washed every day, the lessons that I learned were hard ones. Every pill I’ve had to swallow which contains one dose of reality and another punch in the gut for all of the silly mistakes I made along the way has made me a better person, that the woman I want to become, the woman I’m striving to be: she’s better. She’s better than the current and the previous me, because she’s learned lessons I’m currently in the process of being taught and she’s onto the next level.
When I think of the woman that I’m to become, I often hope that she’s come out of her shell and is slightly more outgoing in social situations, that she can put IKEA furniture together by herself and perhaps even allows herself to curse in public – the F word is predominant in my brain but not on my lips. I hope that she values herself but also understands that she constantly needs to work on herself – not her outer appearance, but the way she is as a person. I also hope that she’s finally come to accept that not everything in life can go her way, and that the spoiled attitude that she’s currently struggling to drop, has completely vanished. I can only work on becoming this woman though, I can only hope that I learn these valuable lessons and these flaws that I acknowledge, I work on and strive to become the woman that I want to be.
I also hope that the woman that I become in the future is a woman that can balance happiness within her work and personal life, because I often feel that I’m in a constant stress between excelling at work (and by work I mean my blog) and also keeping everyone around me happy – I’m constantly questioning if a work vs life balance is possible when the one thing on my brain is to get better at writing and the main thing on my lips is how I want to get better at blogging. Everything that I do though, is in hopes that the me five years from now is successful – not in the eyes of everyone else around her but in the eyes of myself. I want to look in the mirror and be exactly where I want to be.
So the woman of my life, as much as I understand that it’s probably a little bit cliche or even self absorbed to say – is me. Not the current me, not the past me – but the future me. I can’t wait to meet her and see what she’s gotten up to and how she’s coping and to also know what lessons she’s learned. I hope that I like her, or rather, I hope that I love her.
Here’s to the woman of my life.