If you had told me when I was seventeen that I’d be thirty-seven years old, seven years divorced, single and on a trip to Bali, Indonesia in the spring of my thirty-seventh year, I wouldn’t have believed you. I wouldn’t have even heard beyond the word divorce and got to the fun word, Bali. Instead, in a full-fledged teenage frenzy, I would have shot into fight mode, words flying out of my mouth like a gamer’s quick-twitch thumb on their controller’s trigger. I would have thrusted my virgin heart forward and valiantly proclaimed my ability to fall in love and stay in love is much greater than those with broken love pacts. I would have told you that I’d be one of the foreverers, that I’d “get it right” because I’m different. I’m special.
What a thing for that on the cusp of adulthood girl to wholeheartedly believe. And I don’t say that shaking my head in disbelief at wide-eyed, sweet, yet senseless little me. Rather, I say it because the “special” part and the “I’m different” part of that seventeen-year-old’s sermon were spot on, just not for the reasons she assumed.
She had no idea then how brave she’d become to keep looking Fear in its blood-red eyes and try for what she wants whether that be romantic love, a career, a destination, or a dream, again and again in a world that has become less and less forgiving. She had no idea that the first boy she’d love at seventeen would still be her big love touchstone at thirty-seven, and for good reason. (Her picker was spot on at seventeen.) She had no idea the why of her special or her brand of difference, but she knew it was there inside of her, and to this day that insight at such an early age is impressive to me.

She wouldn’t have believed me if I told her she’d go through two starless years not believing in love or at least not believing love would happen to her (again). She wouldn’t believe me if I told her the way the last man treated her. Everyday a fire drill. Stop, drop, and roll up what’s left of your self-esteem into a microscopic ball so he can’t see it.

She’d say, “No, not me. I know all the big dreams I dream up when I climb onto my parents’ rooftop after everyone falls asleep are meant to be. And they don’t include a fucked up he.” She wouldn’t say it like that though, she’d simply say, “Nope. That’s not me!” but the above sentence would be what she means.
She wouldn’t have known where Bali was on the map. But she wouldn’t have known her way around any map that didn’t lead to her already mapped out dreams.

From the time of counting her stubby fingers to tell someone her age, she was a professional at three things:

1. Watching what grown-ups closest to her did wrong in relationships
2. Promising herself she’d do love right
3. Playing a sport

She told herself she understood love because she understood sacrifice, dedication, loyalty, teamwork, and the innate value of clear communication from the lessons of her favorite game. She knew in order to win the work must be done together. She also knew to love was to know something more massive than yourself then sweat, bleed, and cry for it when you must. She wouldn’t need to know Bali because it wasn’t yet a pin in the canvas of her dreams. All she knew was that she’d be a professional soccer player one day and she’d fall in love (for real as she’d say) and there would be no need for a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

She didn’t realize there should or even could be a life beyond the promise of these dreams.

And so, keeping in mind what she didn’t know and her aptitude to dream, I think seventeen-year-old-me wouldn’t be so bummed out when learning about thirty-seven-year-old Bali tanned me. At least, not after I explained how much wider her dreams could be.

I’d tell her, you didn’t become a professional soccer player. Although, my girl, you got remarkably close. Some might say as close as one could come without getting the full dream.

I’d tell her, you didn’t fall in love and stay in love. At least, not yet. Although, my girl, you’ve been in love a handful of times. And it was every bit as delicious as you had hoped.

I’d tell her, don’t worry, you still find your way onto rooftops and dream colossal dreams and make up silly inventions and laugh until your belly is sore with glee. You write poetry and look people in the eyes when they speak and walk tall even on the days you feel so very small. You continue to care too much (exactly enough) about everything. You become more confident than you give yourself credit for and more filled with grace than ache although you often won’t admit that either. You grow into a human who is every bit as powerful as you once dreamed. It just looks different than you imagined. Nothing about that is less worthy of celebration.
And she would be heartbroken and transfixed by her future self at the same time. Then after a long pause, she’d say something like, “so I’m a foreverer after all.” Shocked and caught off guard, I’d say, “What do you mean?” And she’d say, “It sounds to me like I am forever falling in love with different somethings. Isn’t that, right?” I’d nod my head yes and agree.

Then she’d smile as bright as her white-blond hair and say, “That sounds like a foreverer to me.”