One Year of “Pearl Collector”
This month, one year ago, my first collection of poetry was published. It was a passion project, a means for me to heal heartbreak and learn about myself, seemingly classic tropes for us twenty-somethings. The time passed in between then and now has been ever richer with self-discovery and understanding for what it means to be Here, now. I mean this in both the mundane and existential.
After publishing Pearl Collector, I felt connected and certain about where I was projecting my life. I also felt more confident in my ability to make things happen for myself. Now, I feel disconnected from my work as an artist...as a person. Pearl Collector was like an assignment I gave myself to ease the exit from college to pave a smoother path into “real” adulthood. I didn’t quite have to let go of the period that inspired my work and allowed myself permission to revel in the memories. For two years, this was my purpose. But that got exhausting. There’s only so much memory-digging you can do before it becomes more harmful than help.
Since the original excitement died down, I’ve been able to take a break from the unrelenting waves of “what if”, especially when it comes to my personal relationships. Instead, I started working deliberately to nurture who I have Here, now. Really, post Pearl Collector publication, I’m admitting to myself the truths I know deep down but tried to push away because they didn’t match an old idea of who I thought I’d be. I’m taking responsibility for what is now within my control, and owning up to my desires as they are in the present rather than what they once were.
It’s strange, how I am resistant to change even within myself. I’m reconciling that I enjoy making my bed now, or that I desire geographic proximity to my parents, when earlier in my life I demanded my bed stay an unmade nest, and truly believed I was ready to move across the ocean and make a new life for myself. I’m reconciling the fact that I don’t know, so clearly, the job I want, when only a couple years ago I was certain I’d be a physical therapist. The hardest part for me isn’t the changes themselves, but that they feel like a step backward. No amount of intellectualizing the societal conditioning and expectations of what post-college life should be can change this deeply embedded discomfort.
Once every couple months, I feel a twinge of regret, wishing I’d gone to graduate school right away. I tell myself I should have “sucked it up” and “pushed through”— but where, really, would that have gotten me?
I wouldn’t know all the ways I can trust myself if I hadn’t put Pearl Collector together. I wouldn’t know all the support that’s come with being publicly vulnerable, allowing strangers and family alike to read the depths of my thoughts. I wouldn’t know that the existential question of purpose goes so far beyond any career decision, that its now laughable I ever tied them together with a knot.
One whole year of sending my work out into the world has been a release, relief, and relish. I’m not the same person who wrote those poems. I’d argue I’m not even the same person who sought out publishing them. When I think about this way, it becomes a little more evident that I haven’t moved backwards at all. Instead of doing what I assumed everyone would prefer, I’ve been doing what I need to further form myself into a person I love. All my steps off course were only wrong on your course. They were always undoubtedly perfect on mine.
