At 8 years old, I would imagine what I would look like when I turned 18. Would my hair be unruly and curly, still? How do I wear make-up? I would imagine my body, often looking in a mirror while holding my belly and think "will I ever have a flat stomach like the other girls?" I thought about what I would "do"- even at eight, we knew about "careers." While other kids said they wanted to be a "teacher" or "police officer," I wanted to be JK Rowling. (Yes, your precocious narrator read the first Harry Potter at eight.)
At 16, that flat stomach was close but came with a lot of disordered eating and insecurity. My hair was still curly, but the flat iron made it less unruly. I knew nothing about make up but loved a dramatic eye, and those insecurities little eight year old Leanne saw in the mirror were still prevalent, but less worrisome than that dreaded word "college". I wasn't sold on the idea of college. Everyone around me was stressing about SATs, ACTs, and other tests to prove their worth. On the other hand, I spent my time reading or writing stories about a young celebrity who felt lost in life.
My AIM-pal at the time, we'll call him Peter, and I would talk about "growing up" and even spoke about weddings. I told him I would only get married if there were disco balls, and Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" was the first dance. When we discussed what we would "do,” his aspirations seemed lofty, and I couldn't think that far in advance. My default answer was that I would be a writer or an artist. That seemed safe and vague.
At 18, I wondered "who" I would be. With an older brother who trailblazed success at an unconscionable rate, I began to feel the pressure mount. As the second child, I had the pleasure of living at the beat of my drum, but by 18, my home life was turned upside down, and I knew that whatever choices I made, I was on my own. My dream was always to be a famous writer. About what? Well, that part was still unwritten. From a young age, I knew I was meant to tell stories. By the time I graduated college- yes, I was accepted into all the colleges I applied to, I even graduated with a dual degree, an honors certificate in English and a minor in Psychology- talk about living outside of my expectations- I had started a fan page for the Dave Matthews Band that had some traction.
I took a low-paying Director Job at a Museum in Connecticut so I could live with my boyfriend- whom I most certainly assumed I was going to marry- and spent my nights and weekends writing about the Band. It was my Almost Famous summer, and I loved every second. I was even flown out to the Gorge by a Band member- I mean, who lives that life at such a young age?
Eventually, I quit that low paying job, took an equally terrible but better paying job, all within six months. By seven months, I learned the boy I was going to marry cheated, and by eight months, I was back on Long Island... with no job, no idea what was next, but a pen and paper. My father "offered" me a serving job at his restaurant, and during the day, I started writing articles for Thought Catalog and Huffington Post.
Sure, I was serving food to make money- not exactly what parents dream of when they ship you to college- but I was genuinely happy. I was writing. On slow Tuesday nights, I'd camp out in the back and write stories or articles. I felt like I wasn't settling; I was paving my way. This was the time of Vanderpump Rules (pre-whatever it is now), so making cash while you work on other projects or dreams was alluring. At 24, I was convinced I had it figured out. By 28, I was entirely off my track- acting as a pseudo manager of the restaurant (in hindsight, I was cheap labor for my father)- but I had just met a man named Dan, who became a fast friend- it wasn’t all fruitless.
By 30, I had quit writing, was divorced, lost two of my three jobs to a pandemic, and had no idea what was next... again. This level of loss was different than at 24 in so many ways. I lost an entire life, down to my dog, and this time, I had to unlearn the patterns I was following. I couldn't, and wouldn't, go on carrying all this pain.
The one job I kept was the most terrifying: a 9-5... at a desk—the horror. It was the second-best thing from that restaurant job, but it felt foreign. I spent a lot of time talking to my friend, Dan, about all these worries. I'll never forget one night at our favorite Chinese restaurant, Albert's, when Dan said, "You want to run away from this job but look at your connections. Keep it, work it, and stay long enough to see where it takes you." And so I did. Four years later, it’s led me to be the best place I’ve been.
I am turning 34 this week, and I've been feeling nostalgic for all these moments. It's difficult to trust the process when your path feels chaotic, but I am grateful for that janky road. I trust myself more, and while unfamiliar, it’s empowering. Feeling certain can be uneasy when you’re accustomed to a path of uncertainty. However, I’ve learned I’d rather be certain I can handle anything than be so uncertain I don’t try anything.
Trying is precisely what I’m doing. I'm writing and even put my camera down to focus on becoming better. Through here, I'm a paid writer- a dream I've had since those early Thought Catalog Days. In two months, I've stepped outside my comfort zone repeatedly when it comes to writing- even joining a writing club despite my imposter syndrome.
Dan was right, of course. Keeping that 9-5 has given me a community, and I've never felt I belonged more than I do now. It comes with quirks, but what job is perfect? I'm so happy and no longer worry about "settling." There's nothing wrong with having roots, I've learned. It often blossoms into a beautiful life.
I don't know if anyone else ever thought about their future in age milestones like I did. I'm sure it resulted from being the youngest family member. When you watch everyone grow up around you, you rush the process.
In the spirit of nostalgia, I’d like to reassure all those little Leanne’s…
To the little eight year old Leanne who worried about her belly; sorry, babe- we still have a little pouch, even when we're down 30 lbs. It's part of our DNA, but we learned how to use a blow dryer and mastered the barely there makeup routine. I'm sorry for all the times your aunts commented on your weight, but know you're so beautiful inside and out. And, you're funny- which only comes with an awkward stage.
To 16-year-old Leanne: In the end, the college opened many doors for you, and you've overcome all those insecurities you hid. Your wedding is at the end of the month, and there will be disco balls... EVERYWHERE. Unfortunately, Frankie Valli won't be your first song, but you are marrying a man who can't take his eyes off of you.
To 18-year-old Leanne: being you is the only expectation you must live up to. If your soul feels good, the rest will follow.
To 24-year-old Leanne: I'm sorry I rushed you past the uncomfortable parts. You were on the brink of all our dreams, but we were scared of what all that meant. We needed more time, more grit, and ten years later, I promise we don't quit on ourselves anymore.
In all the hours I spent fantasizing about what it would be like to get older, I never could have imagined this for myself, and I can't wait to see what the next few years have in store: good, bad, and all the in-between.
As always, I’m grateful you’re here. Our programming will be different this month. This space is my dream, but so is marrying Dan, and I only have 19 more days to relish in this time. I want to be as present as possible, so I’m permitting myself to ease up on publishing the next three weeks.
I have a post for Friday, my birthday, and an idea for our wedding week. In April, we’ll return to recipes, martini monologues and fingers crossed, this podcast I’ve wanted to start. This is only the beginning, friends.