The Life We Still Get to Create
Sometimes life brings us a strange kind of grief. It is not only grief for what happened. It is grief for what never happened. I used to think about the childhood I could have had — a simple roof over my head, caregivers who could provide basic care, and the chance to learn music, pick up a guitar or piano, dance, paint, learn languages etc. I often wondered: if I had the chance to start these things when I was a child, how would I experience them now? What would it feel like to have those years of memories and growth behind me?
For many people, these opportunities are a normal part of growing up. They have the conditions that allow a child the freedom to explore and play. My childhood was different. I used to ask why and wish things had been different. I wondered what could have been if I had started as a kid. What would my experience look like now? What would life look like if I had a different beginning? But slowly, the question began to change. Instead of only asking why, I started learning acceptance. Acceptance does not mean that I believe everything that happened should have happened that way. It does not mean I no longer wish things had been different. It means I can acknowledge the past while continuing to write new chapters.
The interesting thing is that regardless of when I started, I still have a deep appreciation and passion for all these things. Even when I first play a single note on the piano, I can feel a deep sense of joy. Maybe the most important thing was never the age when I started, but the connection I have with these experiences. And although I am not a child anymore, I am still early in my life. There are decades ahead to learn, create, move, explore, and discover. A child may learn because someone gives them the opportunity. An adult learns because something inside them says, “This matters to me.”
Every experience and everything I learn becomes a conversation between the child I once was and the person I am still becoming. When I dance, I am giving myself permission to play. When I play the piano, guitar, or sing, I am experiencing parts of myself that were waiting to be discovered. When I study a new language or paint, I am expanding the world that is available to me. Maybe we cannot rewrite the beginning of our story. But we can continue writing the chapters that come after. The time we lost is real. The grief is real. And yet, the life ahead of us is also real. Sometimes moving forward is not about forgetting what we missed. It is about embracing the excitement, curiosity, and desire for the new chapters that are still waiting for us.
