Dreamy Ania

I have been called cynical and pessimistic many times in my life. Ironically, I have also been called naïve and idealistic many times in my life. And I can bet you anything that I’ll keep being labelled both ways by different people at various points, and on every single occasion, it will say much more about them, than it ever says about me.

Sure, sometimes I do see myself as quite naïve. I definitely strive to see best in people (and life in general), and it occasionally (like now) does bite my arse, rather badly. But I still think it’s better that way, even though the bumpy road to this conclusion was nowhere near easy. As the time went on and my self-awareness kept expanding, I’ve learnt to stop giving myself so much shit for that innate “idealism”. I grew to appreciate and hone it instead. Guard it like my biggest treasure.

Late Bloomer

Once in a while I like to look through my old pictures. Of which, as an amateur photographer, I have a real abundance. It’s one of my main aids in the battle against darker times. Works wonders when crippling doubts are driving me mad. They put things in perspective.

I used to think I’ve done everything in my life either wrong or way too late. To be totally honest, some part of me is still wrestling with that thought.

Self-awareness is the key

A while back, one of my best friends confessed that over the years I’ve become his inspiration and he hopes to arrive where I am now (mentally) one day. An older friend of mine once told me it fascinates him how well developed my radar for bullshitting seems to be. My flatmate thinks I got my shit together and my then-friend now-partner willingly admits that what drew him in was how sure of my own decisions and opinions I seemed to be. And even though being complemented like this still makes me uncomfortable, a part of me nods in agreement: yes, knowing yourself may be tough as fuck at times, but it does pay off.

It all boils down to self-awareness.

I’m detached

Even though I have always identified myself as an immigrant in the UK, for a long time I have been half-consciously avoiding calling myself an emigrant. In relation to Poland, I considered myself a free spirit, an endless traveller. I didn’t fully discard the idea of coming back. After all, this was my home for over 25 years, and it remains a home for my friends and family. Last thing I wanted was to get excluded from it. And it felt like calling myself an emigrant would do just that: exclude me.

Arriving at a point when I feel comfortable and confident enough to call myself an emigrant took me a long while and was a rather confusing process. By the time I moved to Edinburgh for the second time (and stayed), existential and identity crises were no strangers to me. And yet this one did take me by surprise. God really knows why, since I always knew – and emphasised – that starting your life from scratch in different culture (no matter how well familiar with it you’ve previously become) is a bloody hard work. For all I know, I should have seen it coming.

But then again, in Sally Rooney’s words: “sometimes you live through certain things before you understand them. You can’t always take the analytical position”.