Waiting On The Rain
A lifetime ago a man approached me at a gas station and told me I should model. He gave me his business card. I am short and not a model. But my heart skipped a beat thinking about what this could mean. Had I been discovered by a modeling agent or ... a predator? I played it safe and never called the number on the card. But it haunted me - did he see something in me, or did he want to wear my skin? I’ll never know. When I was in my early 20s a Ferrari pulled through the dry cleaning window I was working. The driver asked me if I could sing. Feeling bashful, I impulsively said “no”. He muttered, “That’s too bad” and drove away. I wondered if I had squandered my chance.This was Nashville after all. He could have been some big wig music exec looking to hand out a deal. And while I’m not really a singer, I should have at least shot my shot, right?
I’ve had lots of these kinds of run ins. A brush with a possibility. A chance meeting. An acknowledgement. Reaching, always reaching. I’ve daydreamed that a friendly conversation with an elderly woman in the produce aisle could land me an in-the-right-place-at-the-right-time book deal. I’ve imagined going viral. I’ve imagined that somebody might discover my drawings and it lead ... somewhere. Anything. But always, always, I’ve been looking and reaching outward.
I have waited my entire life to be discovered.
I have left my fate in the hands of others. I’ve looked out hoping to be seen. Who’s path might I cross that could forever change the course of my own? Who is going to find me? I’ve always been reaching out for the hand to pull me up - believing that the reach was the effort.
Over the years I’ve sought out the influencers of the world. From celebrities to social media personas, podcasters, artists, musicians, etc. I’ve always secretly hoped that we’d click and I’d somehow get thrust into their spotlight. (Not talking about the friends that I knew before their success or you, Em) I’ve gotten light attention - shout outs, responses, conversations … but not friendship. (Except for you Em!) Maybe that’s because the friendships that I sought were contingent on what I secretly hoped to gain. Admitting that makes me feel gross. I wouldn’t want to be friends with somebody with motives like that. Major ew.
It seems that all of my dreams have been limited by the coattails that I imagined I’d ride in on. (Can I get an “Ew, David”)
Y’all. What the actual fuck? It was a little jarring to discover this about myself. A good old fashioned blind spot. I’m a hard worker. Discovering that I’ve been waiting to be discovered was kind of disheartening. Maddening. Embarrassing. And quite frankly, lazy!
Recently my husband, Johnny, brought an interview to my attention. It was a live KEXP interview/performance with Noah Gundersen. Noah (who I’m not on a first name basis with) said something along the lines of how we spend time in our 20s trying to be this one thing; this one way. And our 30s are a time where we reconcile that maybe we’re not the thing we wanted to be. Which means we come to terms and accept who we actually are. I thought it was pretty profound. Somewhere subconsciously I’d been feeling the same way.
A few weeks ago I found myself feeling hurt by the success of a friend. A person I adore, who is good and deserving and kind. She got a book deal. A motherfuckin BOOK DEAL! My dream of dreams just fell from the sky and into her lap. Being an author isn’t the finish line she’s dreamt of crossing since she was a kiddo. That’s my finish line. And while I’m truly happy for her success, it stung.
Somewhere in the deep and dark abyss of self pity and envy it hit me: The person who needs to discover me, ugh. Is me.
I have to be my own damn hero and push for the things that I want. A lady in a produce aisle or some big wig in a sports car are not going to turn my life into “A Star Is Born”. Bradley Cooper isn’t dropping by. The reality is that I don’t have a book deal because I’ve never actively pursued one. And to get one, I kind of need to do that. My gonna-be-an-author-friend sure as shit did. Nothing just falls from the sky. You have to dance for the rain.
In my 20s, I believed I’d be discovered. But now I’m 36. I know what I am, and I know what I’m not. And damn, I don’t want to hitchhike my way to the top. I shouldn’t be waiting on somebody else. The hand that’s gonna pull me up and help me realize all of my hopes and dreams … Yeah, that hand is gonna have to be mine. The reach will have to come from within. What a fucking cliche.
Reach in, friends.
And … if you want to see the prophet and musical gift that is Noah Gundersen, click below. It’s also the interview mentioned above - where he doles out life advice like it’s a whip at Disney.
