Impulsiveness

When I was five years old, my brother played cricket at a nearby park. It was the most boring thing in the entire world to watch and I did not enjoy it in the slightest.

So one Saturday morning, my mum asked me if I wanted to go with her to pick him up. Naturally, being a head strong, stubborn five year old meant that I was not going to go and pick J up and that I wanted, instead, to watch the rest of the Rugrats in peace.

When I eloquently put this to my mother, by screaming and crying at her, she eventually gave in, knowing that she would be home in 5-10 minutes.

But you see.

This thing happens when I rush into decisions and I experienced my first dose of regret as my mum’s car pulled out of the drive way.

Regret.

Deep regret in my slightly too quiet house.

I don’t exactly remember what happened after but somewhere between regret, mormons knocking on my front door trying to coax me into taking a bible and my descent into total chaotic crying hysteria, my five year old self managed to dial ‘000’.

My mum arrived home to find the front of our house littered with police cars. She rushed inside, heart pounding and found me sitting happily on the couch showing some lovely police officers my coin collection.

Needless to say, I was forced to watch J’s cricket game every week for sometime after that while my mum consoled me.

What I’m trying to say is, it’s pretty much ingrained in my DNA to rush into things, to be stupidly impulsive and then regret my decisions in some kind of life hangover.

I’ve been travelling for nearly seven weeks now.

I’ve been to ten countries and about fifteen cities. I’ve travelled by plane, train, bus, bike and on the bare soles of my feet. I’ve slept in stations, airports, dorms, hotel rooms, couches, tents and everything in-between.

I’ll always remember the same feeling creeping up on me after I left my teary eyed mum at the departure gate as I boarded my first flight. I got that horrible heart sinking feeling where you know you’ve done something stupid.

Yeah...
Regret.
Apprehension.

It was at least three times scarier than the experience I had when I was five.

I think I’m starting to understand why it’s important to not necessarily be strong but to feel strong. “Sometimes you just need to measure yourself” because as hard as it was to leave everything, there hasn’t been a single day where I’ve regret my decision to board that first plane.

I’m just grateful I’m a little more courageous then I was when I was five.