A Reintroduction

Let's start with regrets, shall we?

The last thing I finished writing was my grandmother’s obituary. Since then, I’ve started and stopped typing countless times, trying to write about caregiving and grief and the ways that I’ve kept myself alive through it all. Nothing feels like enough. Raw enough, composed enough, smart enough. In my grief, I have become critical of myself in new and frustrating ways. I still can’t seem to figure out why. 

On this journey of trying to find my way back to writing, I’ve butt heads with my internal editor relentlessly. Most people - and I’m sure all writers - have one. Mine has been brash since I started writing as a kid. I type, delete, type, delete, endlessly. Even as I write about deleting, I find myself hitting the backspace instinctually before I can get a full thought out. Writers have given advice on this countless times, and I’ve heard it; I’ve just never listened.

In order to write again, I have to give myself permission to fuck up. To ramble. To write things that are bad and candid and messy. To let myself be silly, sad, serious, human. It boils down to regret, an emotion that holds hands with grief, always tagging along. I have to give myself space for regret. I have to hold the door open and welcome it in, rather than avoiding its calls. So, as a re-introduction to my Substack and more frequent writing, here is an incomplete list of things that I regret. 

1. Bangs. Almost always bangs. Before I was tall enough to see into the bathroom mirror, I dragged a step stool to the vanity, grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors, and cut my hair into my toddler version of bangs. After a brief panic, my mother took me to a salon to have them professionally fixed, but photographic evidence will never fail to remind me that I should never again fall prey to the urge to cut bangs. 

In seventh grade, I decided to give side bangs a try, and those were perhaps even worse. 

Image Description: a photo of Autumn at their third birthday party. Their eyes are closed, their hair is in pigtails, they’re scrunching their face up in a smile they still resort to as an adult, and their blunt cut bangs adorably highlight the pumpkin shape of their face. Next to them is a Minnie Mouse birthday cake.

2. Heels. Every time I’ve purchased a pair of high heels, I’ve done so knowing that I a) cannot walk in heels to save my life and the lives of everyone I hold dear and b) do not even like them. I bought my first pair for a sorority formal that I never ended up attending. They were black and simple, trendy for 2016, and they made my legs look long in the short black dress I ordered. I never wore them. My second pair, sunshine yellow, were added to my cart because I thought they’d make me like my legs more. I regret most additions to my wardrobe made in an attempt to like my body more. Those things were never really about me - what I thought was cool, what made me happy, what was comfortable. They were about the ways I feared others perceived me.

I (and my legs) look infinitely cooler in Docs (and sandals with mushroom socks.) Heels? Never again. 

Image Description: a pair of jean clad legs sits on a deck, highlighting the star of the show: black leather sandals with maroon and pink mushroom patterned socks. The epitome of fashion.

3. Golf lessons. Yes, you read that right. In high school, I joined the golf team with some of my friends, and in an effort to be less of an embarrassment to the sport than I was, I took lessons with a “professional” which is to say he was probably a retired Republican who got bored and wanted to spend alone time with a teenager. If you took me to a Top Golf today, you’d realize the degree to which it was a waste of time and money. Though, I recently saw a clip of Trump bombing a chip shot, and a part of me hopes I could still kick his ass. 

Maybe I don’t regret golf lessons. 

4. Paying hundreds of dollars out of pocket for two appointments with a therapist who told me I should download Twitter. Because I value my mental health more than she did, I did not download Twitter. Elon should foot the bill for those sessions. 

5. Watching Holidate, a Netflix holiday movie that made my best friend text me, “Wait, you willingly watched a heterosexual Christmas movie?” It was a momentary lapse in judgment and one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen. 0/10, don’t recommend.  

6. Box dying my hair mid-pandemic, then arguing with a stranger on the internet about it when they told me to never box dye my hair again. They were right. Sorry, internet stranger who definitely unfollowed and perhaps blocked me after I was self righteous and a bit of an asshole about box dye! Hope you and your healthy hair are well! I promise I’ve matured, and my hair is finally healthy again!

Really, I regret most of the petty arguments I had with strangers when I started my Instagram account. Every time I didn’t give people the grace they deserve. Every time I lashed out, even in small ways, when I was really just confused and uncomfortable and struggling with my own existence. Every time I chose to respond rather than delete the message, take a deep breath, and toss my phone into the nearest lake (which Minnesota has a million and one of, according to their license plates.)

7. All of the diets I tried after doctors recommended them. Letting doctors recommend diets. Letting doctors accuse me of lying and not taking insulin and purposefully making myself sick. Letting doctors be assholes without defending myself and/or keying their cars. 

8. Deleting the bad, messy, incomplete stories I wrote, then believed to only be bad, messy, and incomplete. Never believing in myself enough to finish the thing, rather than erasing it forever.

The thing I learned while making this list is that I really don’t regret most of the fumbling steps I’ve made towards trying to find my place in the world. I regret the things I’ve done that cause and contribute to harm, but regret is a heavier word than I think most of us realize. Do we really regret the silly embarrassments? The cringe? The oversharing? So much shame evaporates when it’s put under a microscope, because for most of us, the things to be ashamed of when we’re trying our best are few and far between. 

I don’t regret the things I’ve shared when they’ve been half-baked, incomplete, and ever-shifting. And, though it’s a tempting feeling, I don’t regret allowing myself the imperfect vulnerability of coming of age on the internet, as vast and unruly a space as it is. Though I often have to remind myself of it, if someone gets something out of the things I share - even if that person is me - then it isn’t something to be regretted. 

So, the band-aid has been ripped off. I’ve written and shared one somewhat silly, inconsequential piece of writing. I don’t regret it, and I hope you don’t regret reading it. See you next time!

Image Description: Autumn, as a baby who is still too young to worry about regrets, is held by her grandmother, who stands next to her grandfather. All three are smiling with faces covered in colorful icing left over from decorating cookies.