When I was in fourth grade I was obsessed with kickball. It was the thing to do at recess, and I give total credit to my fourth-grade teacher at Middletown Elementary School, Mr. Bere, for putting together an enthusiastic team of kids who could not WAIT to run outside every day after lunch, take their places on the asphalt field, and start pitching, kicking, and running their way around each other. Kickball was the culture of my fourth-grade existence. And I loved it.

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#GLAMOUR

Then one day, as my friends and I took to the asphalt to start our game, a few of the boys in another class decided they wanted to take the court instead. Well, being the strong-minded, small-town kids that we were, my friends and I refused to concede the court to them. Yet still, they decided the court would be theirs. In fact, two of the boys plopped their butts down smack dab in the middle of the asphalt, crossed their legs, and made themselves at home. Faced with an increasingly shorter recess, and having exhausted the options of trying to nicely ask these smelly boys to move, I took matters into my own hands. I didn’t have time for this shit. I wanted to play kickball. And they were in my way.

So what did I do? I marched right over to the smaller of the two boys, grabbed him by the t-shirt, and began to drag him to the outskirts of the kickball court.

(Ok, as I type this, I’m realizing that perhaps it was a bit aggressive, so you are definitely allowed to judge me on this one.)

But you know what? It worked. The boys were out of my way and I could finally take my place to pitch the ball and proceed with my perfect recess. I felt satisfied. Accomplished. Ready to play.

That feeling lasted all of 45 minutes because as soon as I returned to the school building I was called outside the weird, movable classroom wall (let it be known that I am NOT a fan of the open-concept classroom) and greeted with the not-so-smiling face of the Vice Principal. As I was invited to take a seat at a table in the hallway, that satisfied feeling of removing the obstacles on the court began to crumble. Two minutes into a lecture about using words instead of force, tears started to roll down my beet-red face. The confidence I felt during recess was nowhere to be found. And worst of all, I was scared. Scared of getting detention. Scared my parents would be called. And honestly, just scared of getting in trouble.

After a stern talking-to* and being forced to write a letter apologizing to one of the boys for ripping his shirt (not from brute, 8-year-old strength, but from the friction of cotton on the rough asphalt), I returned to the classroom deflated. Head hung low. Unusually quiet. Confidence zapped.

Somehow this 4-hour ordeal with an 8-year-old Emily is what sprung to mind when I went to start putting words on paper this week and sift through my emotions, as of late. And here’s what I realized, thanks to 8-year-old Emily finding her (questionable) power on the kickball field:

My strength comes in waves.

I consider myself to be a strong person. I’ve moved countries, jobs, and visas alone. Traveled the world (albeit only two solo trips). And established a budding life for myself in Hamburg, Germany, simply because it’s where I feel happy. (That being said, I’ve never experienced massive trauma, was blessed with an idyllic and privileged childhood and was handed a lot of door-opening opportunities. So my definition of strength is highly individualized- I’m aware.) But over the past few months, as I’ve started to simultaneously find my stride as a boss and a single woman in her (late) 20s, I realized that my strength has its limits.

I have no problem being tough in new situations. Have some constructive criticism on a campaign at work? Literally, no problem. I’ve learned to take direct, German feedback (anyone here ever worked for Germans before?) and run with the insight it provides, without taking any morsel of it personally. I can pivot like nobody’s business and even managed to do this quite seamlessly a few months ago, leaving my toxic job behind, with minimal shame. THAT is the Emily on the kickball field, with no space for time-wasting, on a mission to run the bases.

But then these funny things called feelings come along, and that strength crumbles. Ok, maybe not crumbles entirely, but starts to wobble a bit more than I’d like. In the poll I put out yesterday on Instagram, I was surprised to see that almost 90% of you wanted a feelings update, instead of some insights on my travel blogging days. And all I’ve been able to figure out, as I sit here trying to make sense of my feelings over the past couple of months or so, is that feelings don’t follow the rules. They don’t fit into the boxes that my organized, strong-willed self wants them to stay locked inside.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve had no problem filtering through a few dates recently, weeding out the harmless, nice guys who aren’t what I’m looking for. I can breeze through a first date with honesty, directness, and a fair bit of sarcasm (maybe not the best thing, but I’ve found that I can’t help myself). And when nice guys come along and stay in their boxes, without pulling my feelings underneath the lid of their container, kickball-court Emily is good to go! About a month ago, I sat having coffee in bed in the morning with the perfect, boxed-in guy. We seemed to have a beautiful understanding of where we fit into each other’s lives and were happy to stay inside our respective containers. We sat swapping work stories, legs intertwined, feelings separated, until he took off, as planned, so I could get ready for work and go about my day. No mess. No lingering thoughts. No interruption to my kickball game.

But then the rule-breakers come along. And historically, this is where strong-willed Emily starts to freak out, short-circuiting and not knowing how to proceed with the game. After getting a bit too drunk at a party in Brooklyn in my early 20s, I woke up next to a guy I’d been crushing on and tried to quietly sneak out the next morning, so I could get to my brunch shift at work. Naturally, it didn’t work. He woke up and tried to ask for my number. “Oh no,” I immediately said. “That’s not how this should work.” Stay in your box, sir. (Meanwhile, why is my heart fluttering and my face turning red?!) I protested and got weirdly defensive. Eventually, I gave him my number, and years later at his sister’s wedding in Australia, it led to a good story as to how my first big love and I met. (And now you all know, too.)

And a few years after that, as the elevator doors opened backstage on my first day working on a cruise ship, a handsome, suave man purposefully walked out, dogged by an assistant, when I turned to my friend Josh and said, “WHO is that?!”

“That’s your boss’s boss’s boss, so don’t even think about it, Emily,” he responded. And I listened! For me, it was clear. That was a box (with a significant age difference) I would not be opening.

.... For a grand total of five days, until that very guy wanted to buy me a beer. Cue a very uncomfortable Emily, not knowing how to process her feelings, while trying to find a way to apparate back to her cabin, to avoid the long walk through the officer’s hallway. For weeks. In fact, I used to set my alarm at 4am, so I could sneak back to my regular crew cabin before most of the ship woke up. I was confused. (And tired lol.) And most of all, incapable of articulating my feelings towards this guy who was supposed to be off-limits. Luckily, I didn’t have to. And this unconventional, box-breaking romance turned into a beautiful, three-year-long relationship.

Are We Insta Friends?

Well, I didn’t anticipate opening all of this up to y’all today, but you wanted a feelings update so here you go: I’ve got feelings. And for the most part, strong, empowered Emily is in control of the game. But recently, I’ve realized how terrifying and thrilling it is to have those out-of-the-box feelings. Full disclosure: I typically lead by getting defensive and sarcastic, then regretting it, and trying to walk back my words that most likely insulted a very nice person. I keep trying to drag people off the court, removing their mess from my game, in an effort to protect my fragile heart. Because I don’t want more meetings with the Vice Principal. I don’t want that satisfied, strong feeling to be swept out from underneath me. And I certainly don’t want to return to Mr. Bere’s classroom with my head hung low.

But feelings don’t follow the rules of 4th-grade kickball. 29-year-old Emily is learning a big lesson in giving up control. And it’s terrifying. Thrilling. And also empowering, in its own way. While I’m in control of so many wonderful facets of my life, and on track to do big things, it’s safe to say that my love life has recently plopped itself down in the midst of my kickball court. And I have nothing else to say besides…

Let’s play ball.

In the coming weeks, I want to put together a collaborative love life series.

Have a funny pandemic dating story?

Want to share your advice on keeping love alive?

Have a cautionary tale to share with control freaks like me?

Start submitting them now (to be shared anonymously) via the contact form here.

*Note: Something that I absolutely have to say here is that I don’t think this would fly these days, in the era of strong women and greater equality. These boys plopped their asses down in a place where they had no right to be. While my tactics may have been questionable, I’d be damn curious to see what a Vice Principal would say to a little girl about this in 2021.

This Post is NOT for the Judgmental: Obligatory Feelings Update

My strength comes in waves.

Let’s play ball.