Youth is Overrated.

When I was five years old I was asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I told them “be a shopper”. Evidently I didn’t dream too big when I was younger. Despite those youthful ambitions not starting too lofty, that doesn’t mean they didn’t grow. I’m no longer obsessed with making a career out of spending money to increase my material wealth but age has allowed me to see the importance of other such endeavours (not that aspiring to “be a shopper” is anything to lament but I do think my mother breathed a sigh of relief when these plans changed). 

I now find myself motivated and inspired by women who are at the height of success and loving it. Thriving in their job; making decisions, delegating, proving their worth and maintaining their own sense of confidence and drive in the face of difficulties. I, like media and the many, was infatuated with the success of the young; those who reached the top of their field before they passed through adolescence, or those who age proved no barrier in their determination to prevail. Those who knew young to dream big. 

There is so much focus on the accomplishments of youth, “she’s done so much and she’s so young” which inevitably lends to pressure to succeed quickly, spotlight clambering over tales of overnight dreams becoming reality. But reality is hard work and late nights and missing social occasions and cancelling on your boyfriend on Valentine’s day because projects due the next day don’t finish themselves. Overnight success is rare, as is young success and youth isn’t everything. It can carry the burden of expectation and comparison. It’s lovely to hear the fairy tales of individuals who carry luck on their side and who know they’re “blessed” to be where they are. But the real fairy tales? They’re behind the scenes, not glorified by media or tagging headlines. They’re the ones that are too busy focusing on deadlines and to-do lists and pushing themselves to complete more than is required. They’re the ones quietly making a difference. 

The “you have so much time” line that 20-something’s are fed by elders feels shallow, absent of truth, because the reality is our time passes so quickly; between work, study, friends, boyfriend, family, travel and trying to squeeze social occasions and fun in there is overwhelming and the clock whizzes past along with the belief that we have plenty of time to have a career and a family. 

The idea that there are people younger than us achieving more, and faster is inspiring, until it’s no longer available. Until our youth is snatched away from us between all the obligations we’re trying to fulfill. Inspiration disappears along with possibility. The attraction of youthful success is only encouraging while it is available. Then 25 hits amidst watching teenagers sail past on top of their mountain of accolades, building gadgets worth millions at a time when you were still enjoying life; running wild, acting silly and spending days gallivanting with friends under the freedom of youth. 

Is youthful success all it appears to be? The media sensationalise and simplify the notion that we all can create such opportunity. Youth does not equal success. Hard work, determination, motivation, ambition; these are part of the equation that perpetrate success in youth, not something born out of the simple naivete that dictates our age. 

Thankfully, I find myself inspired by the women who lived their youth; recklessly, full of mistakes and joy rides, of late nights and too many ciders and endless experiences and continued to work hard when pregnant, with toddlers looping circles around concentrated faces as the coffee cups stacked up began to seem depleted of caffeine. Or powering through nap time for the opportunity of quiet. Of women who maintain relationships; intimate and friendly, the upkeep of a house, of a family dynamic and of financial stability. Women who continue to put food on the table, glistening, young eyes to bed with a bedtime story, and they still find time to build careers, to use the powerful female mind to build companies, to make a difference, to follow a passion that didn’t die when puberty passed or when their success story can no longer be glorified for happening “so young”. For me, inspiration is that; hard work, determination, perseverance and triumph through failure; achieved in longevity, a story that lasts the distance. 

"To be successful, you have to be out there."

What's the one thing stopping you from doing what you want, from achieving those things that you only think about at night, in the dark, when you know for sure that no one else can see or hear the reality of your desires?

Probably you, and Richard Branson agrees. The one thing stopping you from living out your inner most, wildest desires, is you. 

It can be confronting and overwhelming to actively pursue your goals; as if someone entered you into a Fear Factor competitions without your consent, and suddenly you're buried up to your neck in a horrifying form of beetle trying to recite the chronological order of England's monarchists in order to escape. Thankfully, both reality TV and ambition are optional pursuits. 

The Kiwi mentality is a good one, we are down-to-earth, hard working, easy-going and friendly; we are always ready to lend a hand and will give anything a go. We are progressive and thoughtful; we were the first to let women vote, the first to legalise gay marriage and we even let a woman from Gore rule the country. We are nothing if not open-minded. But we are also afraid to put ourselves out there. It is not in the NZ mantra to step forward willingly or clap yourself on the back, we don't sing our own praises and we are terrible at accepting compliments. The last time someone told me I'd done something well, I apologised and baked them a cake. It was my mother. 

I was recently living in America and they are our loud-talking, gum-chewing, unapologetic antithesis. We are sweet and obliging, afraid to make a scene, while they can be outspoken and confident, unashamedly honest. They tell it like it is, including their ambitions, what they want to do with their life and how they're going to get there. Their certainties made me feel lost, and intimidated. They had just told me all their plans, what they were going, what they wanted - isn't that taboo? Don't we keep those things to ourselves in case they don't work out? 

There was one time years ago when I told a friend I was going to go for a run, and then meet her for dinner afterwards. I got so distracted by doing other things (there was probably a great episode of The O.C. on) that I didn't have time to go for the run. I turned up to dinner and when she asked me how my run was out of politeness, I freaked, lied and told her it was fine. I couldn't own up to the fact that I said I was going to do something and I didn't. Not going for a run wasn’t intentional and it certainly didn’t matter to her whether I went or not, yet I couldn’t face telling her that I didn’t follow through with my plan. And here were my American friends doing the same thing, on a much larger scale! I was listening along thinking, you just told me you want to be a doctor? A doctor! What if it doesn't work out? What if you can’t get into a course? What if your grades aren’t good enough? There's so many uncertainties that can be prevent this from happening! 

But these questions were really mine. General questions I asked myself constantly. I was more than happy to confidently ascertain my goals in my head, but telling others was a no. I was passionate about my plans, I was actively working towards them and had even written them down in a little notebook I often kept on me with steps I needed to take. I was not shy in admitting to myself what I wanted, but telling others wasn’t an option. It would come across bashful, conceited, self-centred. Making outward steps forward to ensure these goals became a reality was not necessary, or was it? If I couldn't even tell others what I wanted, how could I actually go ahead and do it? 

Being around Americans and their reversed sense of ideals (at least to me) was fascinating. The NZ mentality of being bashful was seen as strange, almost cowardly. The strength and surety my U.S. friends showed was eye opening to me. Like the obsession my 10 year old self had with buying a furby, I was completely drawn in to this new confident, proud way of thinking. Was talking about ambition out loud part of the success in making their dream a reality? By confiding in others were we cementing our goals more firmly and thus holding ourselves accountable to making things happen? If I told myself I was going to do something and then I didn’t, of course I could make up ample excuses for why it didn’t happen! I am an expert at lying to myself and I am also completely gullible; tricking myself would be no problem. But lying to others? That wasn’t something I wanted to get into the habit of. Ever.

A long-running internal conversation has been happening in my head since I was young enough to read. I was a sucker for words, even when I didn't know their meaning. Wonderfully strung words were like my drug; I always wanted more. I knew I wanted to write, but I was constantly nervous about putting my words into the world without anonymity. People could read my thoughts! My feelings! Writing is such a personal and vulnerable place, was I willing to let others, strangers, in? I had long known I wanted to write, but my outward attempts were feeble. I was scared. 

Well, how Kiwi. This mind process was lost on my American friends. They’d call it “cute” with a smile reserved for a baby who regurgitated his pureed peas. But it's not cute, its simply who we are. We refrain from putting ourselves out there for fear we'll be seen as arrogant, or conceited, or dare I say it, confident. As if willing ourselves forward could in some way be taking the position of someone else, stealing another person's opportunity. What makes us think we deserve success over someone else?

Well I think as a nation we need a new mantra. The world is large and the spaces are endless; by striving forward we are not preventing another's success, we are helping it. Providing an example, showing hope, displaying the outcome of perseverance for others to follow. There is never "too much" unless it's a substance with warning labels on the bottle. There is always room for more music, more movies, more education, more businesses; we need to stop limiting ourselves. We need a mantra of opportunity. A mantra of confidence. By being honest and focused, it doesn’t mean we can’t be kind, thoughtful and selfless. It certainly doesn't mean that we are limiting the opportunities of others. With the right mind set, we can create something wonderful. By writing this, I'm attempting to create mine. Listen to the Branson, "be out there", and don't think twice. 

I think, most of the time, it's not that we can't focus, it's that we don't know what we want.

"Chance favours the prepared mind. The more you practice, the luckier you become."

Richard Branson, my daily reminder.

Warren Buffett.

If you do nothing else today, read these quotes.

Feeling like you are one step closer to achieving your goals is optional.

http://www.businessinsider.com.au/warren-buffetts-greatest-quotes-2015-10

The Question of Female Surfing.

Watching women's surfing, one of my passions and all-time favourite pass-times, and being confronted with the terrible irony of a sport on the crest of a boom, yet responsible for its own (inevitable?) downfall.

Perhaps the most glaringly obvious, and topical, case in point? Two words. One woman.

Silvana Lima.

Have you seen her surf? Probably not. Should you have? Yes. Definitely yes. I can bet you've seen Alana surf, or even Coco, but Silvana is down in the depths of YouTube, almost unsearched on Google. The truth for anyone, new to surfing or not, is that she rips. Full stop. She puts her 4'9 body into contortions I've never even imagined. Her board goes places most girls (seriously, most) can't fathom putting theirs. Regardless of wave conditions or size (a component of women's surfing that is absolutely mandatory if you ever hope to do well on the WCT), she can surf better than most of the girls on tour.

Then, BAM. Reality happens.

Reality means Lima doesn't have a sponsor. Travelling and competing on your own buck across vast expanses of the globe, not to mention the transport, accommodation and board costs that come with professional surfing, and Lima is struggling.

The one place she doesn't struggle is the surf. Surely this should speak for something. Surely there is a Billabong, Roxy, Rip Curl, heck a Target sponsor-head out there watching this shining beacon of elite female thinking "now she can surf. I want her on my team."

You would think so. But reality proves that this mustn't be the case. Silvana is sponsor-less.

When the board flies through the air with her body following in an unbelievable showmanship of just how good females can surf, the stickers are missing. When the photos of her come out, soaring through the air and blasting giant-sized chunks, throwing spray many times larger than her, we see blank empty space on a board begging for a sticker.

2014 saw Alana Blanchard get the wild card. I have seen many attempts to grate on the ASP for giving Blanchard the spot over others, it is not only Lima that is missing out on a well-deserved place. However, I don't whole-heartedly disagree with their choice. Blanchard has more Instagram followers that any other surfer. She has almost 200,000 more than Kelly Slater. Blanchard could possibly hold the crown for most heard of surfer, certainly the most recognisable. That long blonde, surfer hair and the come-hither puppy dog eyes. That body, right? That arch in her back that leads the voyeuristic eye to her most valuable possession. Not her surfboard, her derrière.

Regardless of whether she can surf (if I'm going to talk personally, I actually think she can. WCT worthy? Debatable), she brings a huge viewership to the sport, particularly the female side. How can you argue with the ASP for wanting to capitalise on that? It is marketing 101.

However, the irony is wrapped up in the pretty parcel of Alana herself. Watch or read an interview with her (I will not be surprised if almost all of you are yet to hear her speak) and she comments on the state of women's surfing, as do all the female surfers these days. The current crop of female surfers are blowing the minds of the viewers, it is an understatement to say that the surfing we are seeing from women at the moment is the best we have ever seen. Fact. But to hear Alana say that the women are surfing better than ever, and that the girls on tour are doing better cutbacks, airs and radical manoeuvres that ever before is confusing.

It is true, I don't disagree with her. But the question lies there begging to be answered, if this is the case - why is Alana on tour? I don't mean this crudely, as I said before, I think Alana can surf and she is certainly better than me and probably 90% of the female surfing population. But she is not in the Top 17 on tour. There are the Silvana's, the Justine DuPont, Felicity Palmateer and half of the girls in the water in Hawaii watching her on tour, thinking.. what? They are mind surfing the waves she is attempting to tear apart, and they are surfing their home breaks when she is gallivanting around the globe posting butt-laden photos to her biggest sponsor - social media.

She brings eyes to the sport, and unfortunately, this still has more value than good surfing. However hard the ASP tries to show their changes, there is irony in their word. Women's surfing is getting better and better, FACT. But viewership is what remains most important at its core. Viewers mean people, people means money. Money means everything.

Alana hasn't made it to the quarters once this year, and I don't believe she belongs in a jersey. I think she can bring just as many eyes to the sport while not on the tour. While she may brings eyes to the sport, I don't think that those same eyes are going to stay in on a Saturday afternoon and watch a live stream of her surfing a mushy onshore. Those eyes will be out with a pint of lager, and will later retreat home in the early hours of the morning merely hoping to see a Blanchard upload grace their social media.

Alana will bring eyes to the sport on the tour or off, and I think those 17 precious places on the tour should be given to those deserving of making it further than the quarters, and to entertain the viewership of the rest of us who are actually watching the women's WCT to see them surf. Because yes, we're still here.

Now, I've just gotta go check my Instagram.

Visions.

I feel like I am duty bound to show them a good time.

My eyes, that is. After having laser eye surgery I can see everything, perfectly. I can see better than 20/20 and compared to before I feel like I put on Spiderman binoculars. My vision is crystal clear. Stars that didn't used to be there now appear in the sky.

So now when I spend my days inside looking from left to right within the 6 inch screen of my computer, I feel guilty. Like Spiderman probably does when he doesn't scale walls, or swing from his webs to save unsuspecting humans.

As I ride the train to work I have to look out the window. I have to. I sometimes look around and everyone else shuffling into empty seats in the morning rush and whipping out their phone which they then plug their eyes in to. The heat from the phone in my bag burns a hole into my conscience and knocks on my mind throughout the journey. I wonder what's happening on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. I wonder if I have any emails or messages. Was that my phone ringing? Is someone trying to contact me?

I let my eyes roam the visions rushing by. The trees are so crisp, the rising sun is a sweeping blanket across rooftops and apartment buildings and glows for attention on fellow passengers downcast faces, their electronic screens masking its beautiful beg of recognition. They don't know the sun is rising, that a new day is fresh and uncertain and just beginning. They're checking their tweets.

I love watching the harbour bridge and the skyscrapers appear across the skyline. I love that so much metal can be so graceful, maybe thats the act of the morning sun. A golden bath on concrete. I love how clear it is, no fuzzy edges or blurred guesses. The train passes apartment complexes bordering the tracks and I can see in the windows and glass doors, some place my eyes wouldn't take me before. Can they see me? How good is their eyesight? Do they know I'm not looking at Instagram? That I'm peering  in at their morning rituals?

I wonder what other people can see. I used to look over people's shoulders to try and read their phones, see what they were doing; it was a test for my eyes. Now I realise they would have thought I was just another one searching for clues of who they are. They didn't know that I couldn't read what they'd written, they didn't know my eyes wouldn't let me understand.

Everywhere I look I feel as though I see everything. I'm so lucky, what can others see? Some are just as lucky, naturally. Do most see blurred lines? Do many trace fuzzy outlines? Or does everyone just see Facebook.