There Are No Rules

 

I'm currently visiting my childhood home in central Florida. I've only run into one high school acquaintance at the grocery store so far. It's strange. I'm like a bonafide adult now. I caught myself dishing out advice to a teenager on the plane ride here. (I hope it didn't feel too unsolicited.)

As much as I live my life with intention and suffused with meaning, I'm trying hard not to read too much into my writing here. I think I'm still figuring out how much I want to share via this platform as opposed to my Instagram, or my Tinyletter—or frankly anything online for that matter. In the ever increasingly obtrusive digital age, I've enjoyed retaining some privacy.

That said, I return to this blog more often than not, actually. I feel fond for a past self who chose to publicly document so much. I love being able to browse my archives, groaning at the ignorant comments or admiring my adolescent yearnings. I remember feeling like if I could just get out of Florida, I could establish a happier path for myself. Now, I bring up my Floridian roots practically any chance I get. Diners at the restaurant had to hear about how I didn't think it was hot outside because I grew up amid constant heat and humidity. You also best believe I have so many thoughts and feelings about the trailer for Sean Baker's The Florida Project. One day I would love to make a short video series all about Florida, tackling stereotypes and misconceptions. Also, space.

My life feels fluid, constantly grappling for identities and seeking more understanding each day. I love the messy, emotional Lizzie who is seriously trying her best to heal. Always have, always will.