Would Have. Could Have. Should Have.
From June 21, 2024
There are few things more satisfying than finishing a journal right at the year mark of owning it. Had you told me this time last year that it would have taken me a year to finish it, I actually wouldn’t have believed you. For a journal of this size — A5, 251 pages — I would’ve said it should have been full after 6 months. “You would’ve written more if you were more intentional. Could’ve written more, if you were disciplined. Should’ve written more.” Constant thoughts.
Would have. Could have. Should have.
Thank God for therapy, because even saying that out loud sounds crazy. Who. the. hell. cares when no one is reading the journal but me anyway?
Going into my 33rd year, I pray I get better at NOT placing these crazy restrictions and expectations on myself — the negative would haves, could haves, should haves that are constantly sprinting through my mind. Honestly, it’s not even a hope; it’s actually happening. I see the change occurring when I look back at old reflections, and old journal entries that hold thoughts and concepts that I don’t find true anymore, even a year later.
Thank God for growth.
Yesterday, I had an epiphany about how small I am playing myself. It’s actually a little sad, and we can thank perfectionism for that little gift; more on that later. The amount of opportunities that come my way based on the mediocre work I’ve put out there is kind of wild to me. I received a request to apply for a writing retreat in Greece based on an Instagram that’s rarely updated and a website that I JUST restarted recently. The possibilities are truly endless, and this is the part of me that knows I’m playing small — because I am scared. This may be the first time I’ve admitted that out loud to someone who isn’t my therapist.
I am scared constantly.
Scared that people will see that I am not as cool, or as interesting, or as worthy as I want to appear. Scared that people already know that.
I am scared to be embarrassed. I am scared to appear as if I am trying. Scared to struggle a little bit.
Scared that I am not as smart as people think. Hell, I am deeply terrified that I am not as smart as I think. Scared that everyone was going around telling me I was smart and talented because they pitied me. I’m scared that people think, that I think, too much of myself. I am scared that people won’t think of me at all.
I am deeply afraid of rejection, so I only do the things I’m good at. Things that come naturally or seem easy to try. I only approach men I already know are interested. I am scared to reach out to old friends who were once close. Scared to be vulnerable and say: I miss you and your friendship, but I don’t know where to start.
I am scared of the predictable and the inevitable. I’m scared that things will change. I am scared that things won’t.
I am scared my window for birthing children is slowly closing. I’m scared that true love has lost my address, so I am scraping for relevancy because I’m easy to find when I’m easy to see.
But most importantly, as I have started to move into the reflection phase of my birthday, my constant fear is that I am running out of time. That I am playing myself small, and one day will look down a long list of regrets of the would haves, could haves, and should haves.
Would have. Could have. Should have.
This year, like last year, my gratitude often finds its way back to centering in the lap of therapy.
Thank God for therapy, and I truly can’t say it enough.
It wasn’t until therapy that I realized how scared I was — how scared I am. Now, I know which fears to deal with and which fears are real. Which fears are old friends, fears that have followed me around since childhood. Fears that I’ve clutched too tight because they felt safe; fears I’ve learned to leave on my journey. Fears that I won’t look back on and say: You would have done something about that… you could have handled that… you should have dealt with that.
Would have. Could have. Should have.