on porches, black boots, and changing yourself.

I’m all dressed up, dutch men offering a grunt from the pub door when they haven’t even looked at me in the span of a year of me living there.

My shoulders feel like boulders, trying to keep up some impossible weight.

I am praying for the bus to be late. Of course it’s a minute early.

I’m on my way to the InterClassics, an old car show in the biggest venue of the city. It’s their 30th anniversary, and they have hundreds of exclusive classic cars and private sellers with the top luxury brands. In my excitement, I bought the ticket a day early and waited for my friends to update me on their availability. Turns out, no one could come.

Not going was out of the question. I would have to go. Alone. At first, it didn’t sound too bad. Even a few hours leading up to the event, I was excited. I had my playlist going, I was dancing in my room, putting together an outfit. But the moment I walked out the door, a wave of dread, anxiety, and uncertainty flooded my body.

I wish I could tell you that I got there, and it all vanished. I realized it was all in my head, and I could just let go and completely be myself. That I had the best time ever and felt so silly for being nervous. But no.

The show itself was spectacular. I’ve never seen so many elegant, beautiful cars in one place. It wasn’t about name brands, but the cars and its owners. That somehow, someone could make a car from 1941 in a wine red finish look like the factory just finished adding the top coat of paint. It reminded me of how biologists work meticulously to preserve specimens in a concoction of chemicals to keep their perfect form. I learned that restoration takes several years and is just as impressive as the actual making of the car. The show was buzzing with fathers and their sons taking photos from every angle. Their wonder was starting to stick to me. It was a place about craftsmanship instead of speed, safety or money. About beauty and elegance instead of show-off luxury.

The familiarity of art and attention to detail tried to envelope me, but my shoulders were too tense and cold to release into its arms. It felts like everyone knew I was there alone, that I knew nothing about cars, that I was completely misplaced. But I thought of the inkling within me a few days ago when I was walking to class and saw an old, classic Cadillac being towed that sparked something within me.

I guess I was hoping that doing something like this would change my life. I’ll meet someone extraordinary, or find some deep-rooted passion within me. Yet, I go there, and it’s the most ordinary thing. You feel the world’s eyes on you, yet no one gives you a second look. Becoming a different person isn’t a one-time deal. Beliefs have to be molded in your mind that you are the kind of person who does the things you dream of.

For instance, today I bought my first pair of knee-high black boots. When I put them on, I felt like a completely different person. But if I would have bought them without gifting myself a cashmere coat a few weeks back, or without having legs from 22kg bulgarian split squats, or without me crouching in the dark with a tiny lamp to paint my toenails, it would have felt empty.

We need to be ready for things. The memorability of an experience comes when everything aligns together and feels right. That doesn’t come from a two-week challenge. That comes from months of changing habits, of keeping to rituals, or rewriting old beliefs. It’s the boring part that everyone wants to skim over to finally get to the grand result. We are addicted to 30 second transformations. But the boring part, is where the change actually happens. When each day, you decide to choose differently. One day, all those choices add up and people see the final result, and find it amazing. But it wouldn’t be as amazing if they knew the pain and hardship of getting there. The ugly part. Which is only ugly because anyone can do it. Because when you break it down to the daily level, the changes are so small, that anyone can do them. It is so much easier to chalk up how someone changed to their motivation, their luck, their genetics, their environment, than to look within ourselves and realize that the only person holding us back from our dreams… is ourselves.

After I left the show, the discomfort melted slowly. I realized I was okay. Maybe it was a waste of money, but at least I had a tick. A tick that I am becoming the kind of person who I want to be. Who doesn’t just sit at home and watch Netflix on a Friday night, but goes out to appreciate old cars in cashmere coats and knee-high black boots.

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