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By Emily Davis
I’ve always had an active imagination. I used to play with Barbies when I was younger, and every one of my Barbies had a backstory: strings of ex-boyfriends who left their fingerprints all over their personalities, complicated relationships with their families, hidden talents, and little quirks. They had their own sense of style with signature color schemes. They had favorite foods and hobbies.
My playtime with my Barbies was linear too. We picked up right where we left off, and if Jason wanted to propose to Jessica, this required a weeks-long Dungeons-and-Dragons-style campaign.
This imaginary Barbie world was real. Not, of course, in the sense that it manifested into my reality, but it existed in a concrete way in the realm of my imagination.
I had a Barbie for myself in this world too, and I tried to make her like myself. Well, of myself. She had all the things I liked about myself, only magnified a little. And then she had the personality traits I wished I had—the ones I felt I had deep in my soul but couldn’t bring out because I was afraid.
My Barbie was spontaneous. Every day a million “what-ifs” race through my mind, but I rarely act on them because “I didn’t plan to do them,” and I haven’t considered all the ways I could fail and come up with a way to ensure my success. But my Barbie would buy a plane ticket to visit a place she read about as soon as she finished the article.
My Barbie was brave. So often, I feel the weight of something I should do, something I want to do, pressing on my shoulders. But I never do it because there’s a chance I might mess up. I don’t talk to someone I’d really like to because what if they think I’m weird? I don’t try new things because what if they aren’t as good as the tried and true? But, if my Barbie saw a cute boy in her favorite bookstore, she would walk over and introduce herself. And if she were driving the jeep, you could guarantee she would take a detour to some unfamiliar parts.
My Barbie was familiar to me. She seemed like she could be me—or I could be her if I really tried. But I never really tried. Fear ruled the show, and the only safe place for this spontaneous and adventurous part of myself was in my imagination. If she ever stepped outside of that realm, I would be embarrassed. I would be uncomfortable. I would fail. I would get hurt. I could die. That’s what fear whispered in my ear every time I got close to the edge.
That’s what fear has been whispering to me since I was a little girl. The world is cruel and merciless, Emily. You are weak and naïve. If you put yourself in a vulnerable position, it will eat you alive. You can’t take risks. You must play it safe if you want to survive.
And survive I have. But my reality is one of comfort and convenience. Does survival really mean much?
About two weeks before Christmas, I looked over at my mother and I said, “what if I just went out west after Christmas and saw a few National Parks?”
She asked me, “Is this a nervous breakdown? Are you running away from home?”
I just laughed and told her that I planned on coming back, but I couldn’t deny that it wasn’t a nervous breakdown. In the era of COVID, there are too many other people telling me that I can’t do things, and I think the adventurous and spontaneous part of me just threw her hands up and said “enough is enough” I’m getting out of here.
So, I made an Airbnb account and started planning my trip. 10 days, 7 parks, 6 states, and over 4,000 miles on the road with only myself (and many albums and Podcasts) to keep me company.
Fear was there too. My neck and shoulders were stiff and sore and my whole body ached because of the slight tremors that shook my body for most of my drive. My stomach was sick with that unsettling, deep cold feel that made me shiver even when I blasted the heat. I thought of all the ways my car could break down. I thought of all the way I could get lost. I thought of all the ways I could die. I was so afraid, but I wanted to meet this spontaneous and adventurous part of myself. I wanted to see her in reality—not just within my imagination. So, I kept driving.
Some of the things I was afraid of did happen. I got caught in a snowstorm in Utah at night and had to drive exactly where the person in front of me had driven or I would fishtail into the other lane. I had no service coming out of a National Park in the middle of the desert, and I had no idea where I was supposed to go to get to my next destination.
But I learned that when these things happen, I am not helpless. I learned that the world is cruel and merciless, but not all the time and not in every place. I learned that I don’t’ have to do something crazy to bring out that adventurous and spontaneous part of myself. I learned that if survival is the only thing I live for, I can’t survive forever.
Suppressing an entire part of my identity hasn’t been sustainable. It’s been exciting to see the girl who once was confined to my imagination manifest herself into reality.
Emily Davis is a McConnell Scholar in the class of 2022. She is studying business economics, political science, math, and PPE at the University of Louisville.