autobiography

a poem

who decides when we’re ready?
how do we even know?
is there such a thing as ready enough,
or do we just leap
and hope the ground appears?

i’m my parents’ eldest daughter –
the first child of two immigrants;
	my father’s projections,
	my mother’s anxieties,
stitched into me like a quilt
of lessons they learned too late.

for years, i called home
to ask for permission, not advice.
every phone call was a council meeting
where i searched for certainty
and got only
		        “it’s up to you.”

maybe there’s an answer key somewhere,
because all i’ve ever known
is how costly
one mistake can be.

my cousin wasn’t ready to be a mother at nineteen,
and i wasn’t ready for college then, either – 
but that’s the thing about readiness:
you still have to do it anyway.

i live a life drawn in pencil,
outlined by other people’s pasts.
each story, a warning:
	     don’t turn left here.
	     don’t stay out too late when it’s dark.
the only risk i take
		                    is walking the path i already know.

sometimes i forget i’m twenty-two.

maybe because i’ve been rehearsing
adulthood since i was seven,
still searching in the mirror
for that bright twinkle i used to have –
before i learned how heavy
being careful is.

no one decides if we’re ready.
the universe doesn’t wait for permission.
so maybe readiness
isn’t a feeling at all –
			                                                                        just the quiet courage
			                                                                        to begin.

-xoxo, Amanda