During the season of daffodils, when October fast approaches, the squeeze of deadlines has tightened its grip on me. Everything is happening in October. And the biggest one weighing on my mind is my closest friend’s wedding. If it wasn’t enough to be stressed about my own deadlines and failures, I’ve decidedly become stressed for her as well.
The days have rapidly become more chaotic, and temperatures have seemingly soared. In the heat of our early spring, I must admit that I’ve felt a sense of dissatisfaction alongside the stress I’ve endured. Perhaps, a kind of melancholy that only comes with a sense of… loneliness? As the bridesmaids came together for the first time, that’s what I felt. I felt out of place and wondered why I had such discomfort in my chest.
They’re all just so different from me. So effortlessly feminine, and easily engaged in girl talk over lunch while I’m sitting there overstimulated and annoyed by the endless melodies of Taylor Swift playing in the background. It was in the way they communicated and related to one another. This wasn’t a place I could blend in. But deep down, I know I’m not meant to.
And my friend could tell that I was struggling. With my half-baked thoughts and her curiosity, we talked a little afterwards. In my thoughts about all the differences between us, and what it would be like to be more like them—to be happy, more feminine and ladylike—I mulled over everything that I’m not. We were like night and day. In response to my laments, she comforted me, softly stating that all these dissimilarities make me who I am.
When you’re friends with someone for 22 years, it’s practically impossible not to know who they are. And she knows me. There have been many times when I wished I could be more like the other bridesmaids. Soft, gentle… more feminine. Traits more universally loved. But I’m blessed to have someone who sees me and acknowledges my differences, always reminding me of who I am.
If you ask me, spring is probably the worst season known to man. It’s when all the mildly-coloured flowers begin to bloom, bringing along gusts of pollen to torture your sinuses. And it puts too much emphasis on all the things I’m not. Girly? Far from it. Even my brother owns more pink clothing than I do (not that I’d ever wear pink, ugh). But this year, my spring isn’t about me.
My closest friend is getting married, and I need to put on a good show for her—at least, that’s how I felt before. Among all the small conversations about the wedding, the bridal shower, and other insignificant details, she has always made space for my opinion. Despite my determination to suck it up and endure anything I could possibly disagree with for her sake, she has assured me that I don’t have to suffer. And I’m relieved.
Beyond overcoming the mental barriers holding me back, I have found some silver linings and pockets of joy. I discovered there was some rhyme and reason for my seclusion and discomfort—that it was a shared sentiment between the other bridesmaid, whom I also consider a friend. While I’ll keep this particular car ride conversation a secret, I won’t deny that I found humour and a new sense of understanding in it. And our little talk gave me the diligence to keep fighting.
When you’re so obviously the odd one out, it’s easy to believe there’s something wrong with you. Before the retrospective conversations, that’s exactly where I stood. There is no place for a “Wednesday Addams” in the middle of a flower field in spring. She’s allergic to colour. But when your friend intentionally carves out a small section in the garden to make room, I guess there is a place for you.
Yes, spring can be suffocating—quite literally if you suffer from hay fever. But it’s not all that bad. Just as you can choose to interpret the daffodil in its plethora of meanings, ranging from vanity and misfortune to renewal and new beginnings, I’ve learnt that you can choose not to suffer. Sometimes, suffering is a choice. So in this new season, I’m trying to be positive in spite of all the disappointments I continue to weather.
It’s far easier to brave the storm ahead when your struggle is recognised. And I’m comforted to have a friend who not only noticed, but also overtly acknowledged and appreciated my efforts. To be thanked so sincerely for the ways I’d shown up and been the “bigger person” was refreshing. And I was left at a loss for words, being given recognition for things everyone normally expects me to do.
Her gratitude was like a wave of relief washing over me, and it meant a lot. Like the kind of warmth you feel during the early mornings of autumn or spring—when the mellow air matches the soft heat of the sun on your skin. My efforts weren’t in vain. So I’m glad that my suffering meant something this time, or that it was at least acknowledged. As it turns out, there is a place for Wednesday Addams in a field of daffodils after all.
水 