Late Bloomer
I began drinking coffee when I turned 50.
Reflections on being a late bloomer
Somehow drinking coffee was a right of passage I missed on my path to adulthood. The other day at work, I recall walking a bit taller as I strode down the sidewalk into the factory carrying a travel mug of the steaming brew allowing myself to feel a new kinship with the slow stream of bodies stepping into their morning ahead of me; similar vessels in hand. I wonder if the security crew noticed a wider smile on my face as I stepped over the threshold of the metal detector , the beep of my ID badge sounding as I clanged through the heavy metal bars of the turnstile. After stowing my lunch and coat in the cubby, I even proudly snapped a selfie of myself grinning holding the mug to send to my son who is responsible for establishing my newfound habit by introducing me to frozen coffee over the summer followed by a gift of Thai coffee for Christmas. I believe he made it his personal mission to get me hooked.
Of course, I would be remiss in allowing the story to end there. Read what you will into the the fact that moments later, while taking my next sip, I bumped the end of the mug on my face shield clumsily dumping a stream of the caramel colored liquid down my chin and artfully turning the front of my shirt into a Rorschach inkblot; eliciting a giggle from a nearby co-worker and dampening any further adult vibes.
It’s actually an apt metaphor for much of the milestone moments in my life; some more momentous than others. “You always were a late bloomer,” I hear my mom’s voice echo in my head.
Clearly she understood what I am just now learning to accept and really embrace, that everyone grows at their own pace.
I don’t actually remember a time in my life when I didn’t yearn to be “older” than my chronological age told the world I was. I’m uncertain whether that is a result of feeling and often being younger than those around me or simply being an old soul.
As I embark on my middle years on this side of the mountain, I feel more at home in myself. In a way, I suppose it feels quite literally like I’ve finally begun to break in a pair of new shoes. It was in the discomfort of the feelings that came when I contemplated allowing myself to be at home in my own skin where the word BLOOM grew from. I can distinctly remember the day a friend shared this quote with me.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~Anais Nin
It helped me see the practice I had perfected of binding my authentic self when out and about in the world in order to protect the vulnerable truths living inside. In hindsight I see that this kind of “living”; where you develop an outer and inner self was a choice I made to conform to the expectations of others and perhaps to live into what I perceived as the “norm”. I really wanted to belong, even though I often received messaging that my natural tendencies or behaviors were too much or not enough ; which made me feel smaller and smaller as I aged.
“What is wrong with you?”
“You are too sensitive!”
“Oh stop your bellyaching and don’t be such a crybaby.”
“Why can’t you just wear something pretty like this nice dress?”
“Sit still and let me fix your hair so other people won’t think you’ve been raised by wolves!”
“You know what your problem is? You need to grow a thicker skin!”
“Life would be much easier if you just tried to get along.”
“Stifle yourself! That’s enough! There’s no need to carry on blubbering like that!”
“You are always so dramatic!”
It wasn’t long before I had internalized many of these statements as “truths” not understanding they were likely just frustrated exhales uttered in times of exhaustion and exasperation all parents find themselves in from time to time.
They became the foundation for a habit of living my life in constant comparison to others; and cultivated a fallow garden of weeds; overrun with A.N.T.S (known as Automatic Negative ThoughtS)
Today, I’m learning how to take charge of my thoughts and name them for what they are. Having come late to the knowledge, as is the trademark way of a “late bloomer”, that we are not our thoughts and that we can actually CHANGE them.
Like most new learning it comes with its share of stops and starts and skinned knees and takes grit and determination and resilience and practice. Lot’s of practice.
In this season, however, I find I’ve got more stamina for getting up and dusting myself off because I have the inner strength and confidence that comes from knowing , just like a SEED, I have everything I need inside me to grow and bloom and sustain a life well lived again and again and again sharing the true colors of the flower I was born to be in the garden of life.
DREAMS an original Found Word Poem by Amy C. Wheeler, 2019
If this blog post resonated with you or you’d like to share some of the ways being a Late Bloomer has impacted your life, please visit me over on Instagram and me a DM or reach out through e-mail found in the contact section of this site.
