Emily in France: Space.

I need some space.

In our culture, this phrase isn't usually followed by a pleasant conversation. In this capacity though, I'm saying these words to myself. I couldn't tell you how much or what kind of space I need, just that I need it. Because quite frankly, I feel lost.

During the holidays, Ben and I were fortunate enough to be able to spend two weeks in the US with our families. I got to snuggle with my baby niece and see nearly my whole family, and then we spent a few days cocooned in a lodge with much of Ben's family. The bizarre complex of consumerism that is suburban New Jersey flattened my soul a little, but spending time with so many dear people inflated me to the skies. The older I get, the more important family seems to me. Spending time with the people I love and admire is that much sweeter when I see them all so rarely.

Between Christmas and New Year, while wrapped in a blanket and ensconced in a rocking chair in front of a merrily crackling fireplace in Ben's parents' living room, I had an epiphany. That, the coziest moment of my life, felt so perfect for one reason I'd never really considered before. As I looked around me to try to lock into the perfection, my gaze turned to the ceiling. Only a few feet above my head, providing me with a warm, Emily-sized shelter, was a regulation-height ceiling. In contrast to our 1,000 foot ceilings in our apartment in France, the Holt House ceilings were at just the perfect height to give me a womb-like comfort I do not experience chez nous en France. Everyone is always saying how amazing high ceilings are, but after my epiphany, I disagree. There is just too much space above me. I can't find my bearings here, and I can't get cozy. Getting cozy is probably the number one goal of my every waking moment, so this is some tough luck.

This epiphany is most likely more than just a literal, physical thing. I can't find my bearings in life either. A few weeks ago, someone mentioned the phrase, "imposter syndrome" to me. Essentially, this is the feeling you get when you don't feel like you've earned your position in whatever it is you're doing, and that you feel like everyone around you agrees that you just shouldn't be there. Basically, you feel like a fraud. Sadly, this speaks to me at a very deep level. I realized a few years ago that I have a debilitating inferiority complex. There are so many things I simply don't attempt because I'm more terrified of failure than I am of trying, working hard, and maybe succeeding. Sure I can work hard at something, but only if I'm developing one of my inherent talents. Moving to France, learning French, and starting a grad program have been a pretty huge slap in the face to my inferiority complex, but I continue to struggle daily with that imposter syndrome.

I need to find myself a cozy little, low-ceilinged nook for my life. Where is my space? Do I find an extant space and fit myself into it? Or do I create my own and tailor it exactly how I like? But how exactly do I like it? One of the most frustrating things about getting older is the growing mountain of un-answered questions. Am I the only 26-year-old who feels this way? Why can't I get my shit together?! Seriously though, where is my shit? I cannot find it, and I don't even know what it looks like. A lot of the time, I feel like I'm playing house. Like we all used to as kids, and I'm the mommy, and Ben's the daddy, and here's our pretend house and our pretend kids and our pretend careers. We're just playacting at life. I hate to feel like I'm constantly complaining about my lack of focus, but it really darkens the shadows on that whole existential crisis thing these wonderful French people invented.

For some reason, I've really latched on to this metaphor I've made for myself with the ceiling heights. While we were still at Ben's parents' normal-ceiling-height-cozy-fireplace house, I was freakishly productive writing a paper for school. I was able to concentrate, my ideas assembled, and I wrote that paper with a purpose I'd been lacking all semester. Was it truly that the physical space was more amenable to an intellectual pursuit? Was I literally just getting more vitamin D from the sunlight that streamed through the west-facing windows? I want to recreate that atmosphere for myself here in France, but I'm so stumped by the voluminous pitch of our apartment. My obsession with home décor makes all that much more sense now... clearly a subconscious effort to tailor this extant space, to give myself some anchoring in the seemingly interminable sea of adulthood.

My physical, spatial confusion extends inward to that place in my soul that seeks purpose. After the number one priority of seeking a cozy existence, my secondary goal is to help people. I don't know how, but I want my eventual career to be in service to the greater good of humanity. This is also difficult because I'm terribly unsocial and awkward. I'm the introvert's introvert, and as such, too much interaction really wears on me. So how can I find a space helping people while also preserving my persona (and inner sanity)? For this conundrum, I sense that the answer would nullify my fraudulent sense of self. But right now, my ceilings are just too high, and I'm drifting in a blurry openness with no semblance of resolution...