26: My Year of Hot Sauce

I could say a lot about being 26. 

26 is when I realized both how very fragile and how incredibly resilient we can be.

26 is when I understood what it meant to be betrayed, and what it means to have to forgive. 

26 is when I started trusting my intuition. 

26 is when I practiced listening more, judging less, and asking better questions.

26 is when I learned how to mix cocktails and apply liquid eyeliner. 

And 26 is when I discovered my love for hot sauce.

I actually spent my 26th birthday here in Portland, most of it alone in a hotel room that smelled like yesterday's grilled-cheese sandwich.  I ended up having to rearrange travel plans to meet my advisor before starting school in April, in lieu of spending the day at home with the people I loved.  Instead, I opened a new bank account, signed a lease, and panicked about this major life decision that had suddenly become much more real.  Over the next month, I donated a good chunk of the crap I had accumulated in the previous few years (it feels like it shouldn't count if it's from a thrift store, but it adds up), said goodbye to hopes and dreams for my previous life, packed up the remains, and hobbled into my new life in a state where it turns out that hard alcohol isn't sold at regular grocery stores.

I was still bleary-eyed that morning at the Tin Shed Cafe, watching the black lab and potbelly pig share a dish from the restaurant's dog menu (welcome to Portland).  When the waiter brought out our orders, he asked if we'd like to try some Secret Aardvark Hot Sauce.  I'd never been a hot sauce person, or so I thought, but the name was enough to intrigue me.  I carefully shook a few drops onto my eggs, took a bite, and had a profound realization.

I liked hot sauce.  I really liked hot sauce.

Somewhere along the line, I'd gotten the idea that I couldn't handle spicy foods.  I think this was a gastronomical side effect of my reputation as a "rule-follower," the straight-A people pleaser who was afraid of standing out.  It fit with my "delicate constitution," my thin, pale, broken body.  Quite frankly, the girl in the mirror doesn't look like someone who should travel the world, lift heavy boxes, or even try to open jars of peanut butter without supervision.  And these conceptions were reinforced by particular individuals in my life whose proclamations about my abilities - or inabilities - became ingrained as truth over time.  In many ways, I saw myself as weak and inadequate.

As I doused my plate with hot sauce, I felt my inner badass come into the limelight.  She has been there all along, largely unrecognized, but quietly working.  She is the part of me that isn't afraid of taking risks, making mistakes, or sharing her ideas.  She is the warrior who has persevered through illness, the adventurous spirit who has traveled to faraway places, and the outgoing side of this introvert that works to bring others along for the ride.  She is the voice who tells me to dream bigger and better, and the hand giving me a shove forward when the meek perfectionist drags her heels.   I'm happy to say that she and I have become much better acquainted over the last twelve months.

In the upheaval of unexpected change, I found freedom from some of the guilt, expectations, and lies that weighed me down.  It's scary to lose your anchors, but I think my ship is on a better course - even if the waters have been a little rough, the journey is worth getting drenched every once in a while.  27, I'm ready for you: bring on the hot sauce. 

picture from Denali National Park this summer
with thanks to William Shakespeare!