Diary entry: An Ode to Words and Wanderlust

This has always been my favourite cafe in London, especially during springtime. I spent so many warmer days here when I lived in London, a time when I felt melancholic about how I was passing my life by in my thirties as a lawyer. I’d look out from the full-length windows taking in the ephemeral beauty of floral baskets dangling from the Victorian lamp posts thinking of how I longed to make a career out of something creative instead.

As I take a sip of my nearly cold cappuccino I’m distracted by the effervescence of teenage university students sitting at the table on my left talking about job fairs and internships. I pretend not to listen while pushing away the twinge of regret that lost time often conjures up - what if I had chosen differently three decades ago? I turned fifty a couple of months ago and all I seem to be doing is indulging in monumental self-reflection. What if I had studied creative writing instead of law, and begun a career in writing when I was twenty instead of forty? Wouldn’t I have been more financially secure and fulfilled now? The questions block my writing flow so I resort to you, my diary, instead.

Maybe our true calling doesn't always fall in our laps at eighteen, maybe you need to live a little before it finds you. A lot of how I’ve figured out life’s decisions has been by trusting my intuition and by returning to writing. Writing was always a place of solace, somewhere that my thoughts could come alive without judgement.

From those lonely years on and off merchant vessels as a child to when I settled in Pakistan - a country that was meant to feel like home but never did - it seems that the only place I felt at home was before an empty diary page. You never offered unhelpful advice or told me what path to take, what you did was allow me to let go of trying to be someone I really wasn’t - even though I didn’t realise that then.

At fifty I have many questions, fears and hopes, dear diary. Is it too late for me now? Am I on a career path that has now passed me by and I won’t have fulfilled my golden years?

By fifty wasn’t I supposed to have figured life out?

Childhood never felt permanent, followed by an adolescence of wrong relationships and even worse friendships. In Pakistan I was battling against conformity. I tried and failed marriage as a means of escape from the expectations of being a Pakistani woman. Why couldn’t I just be like everyone else?

What if I had just reached towards writing earlier? But law was the expected, sensible choice and so I dulled my creative spark. But then there were those moments when I’d see myself shine as I took on new hobbies and artistic endeavours - but expectation arrested my progress each time. I was torn between other people’s definitions of an ideal life and not knowing who I really was.

‘Finding a career that fits you, makes you who you are’ - that's what Daddy always said. I used to envy watching other peers growing up, finding their calling. I never felt that way about the law. Each day at university I felt my intellect was lacking because I couldn’t grasp most concepts. I got away with convincing people I understood law with my big mouth and my ostensibly ambitious nature. I spent so long pretending that I almost convinced myself creativity really wasn’t my calling and probably best left as a hobby.

But here I am, dear diary, on the precipice of change. Would the longing for words and wanderlust lead me to true freedom? Am I out of my depth? What if I fail?

But there are times I know this path feels right: when creativity enters my body as electricity I have never felt before, when shivers run down my back as words flow because they want to and not because I need them to. I know that words are my freedom when I read what I’ve written and am in awe of my own potential to tell a story.

Is respecting my own talent the door to adventure I so seek?

So here I am with writing guiding me into a brave new world. But it doesn’t mean I’m not battling disbelief and fear. Is it too late, does becoming a writer at fifty mean anything, or is it just the first drop in the ocean of the future I’m meant to have? So now as I step into the skin I was born for I find myself naturally following that trusted friend: my intuition. This year I take a leap towards the future I have longed for - a master’s degree in creative writing and working on ideas for future books that I’ve often scribbled in my journals.

Maybe this is the secret to eternal adventure: self-belief and not letting age be crippling. People say I don’t look my age - maybe it’s because I’m still filled with the exuberance of eighteen. I look over to the excited teEnagers at the table across from me and smile. I see the feigned confidence I too once had and then I look at my reflection in the window and I recognise this woman now. I’m the woman I want to be.

As I pay the bill and gather my belongings to step into the early London spring sunshine I accept that finding yourself at fifty means you have an opportunity to rewind life with the privilege of experience to guide the adventure ahead. Maybe a life of wanderlust only comes to you when you have the confidence to believe in your true potential.