When I was 8, I was a famous popstar, a harrowing love interest, an assassin, and a superhero. I was very imaginative, and still am. Playing pretend is so normal at that age, and I felt so at peace. No one looked at me differently for tuning out and into my own world.
At 24, there is a lot less room for make believe. Sure, there’s job interviews and first dates where I can pretend to be a slightly shinier version of myself - but nobody is lining up at the door to play pirates with me.
At some point, you have to choose: blend in, or bloom out. You can do what everyone else does or you can do what you like to do - what lights you up. Choosing fun isn’t easy. There’s self-doubt. Shame. Fear that sits heavy on the shoulders of whimsy. But the truth is—no sweetness comes without cost.
These days, I imagine more than I can explain. Some days I’m a space cadet. Some days I’m a cowboy. Most days, I’m a little bit of everything.
Last year, I went all in. I was writing a song a day—sometimes more—and somewhere between the eighteenth voice memo and a YouTube beat, it hit me: I could play pretend on a bigger scale now. I made an album that only existed for me. Then I made a tour.
I took the GarageBand songs and cut out the lead vocals so the harmonies were still there. Then I added stadium-level applause and visuals. I had a light up Bluetooth microphone from 5 Below, some songs even had choreography, be grateful you didn’t see it.
I performed for my empty apartment every night for a month. (I can’t believe I am admitting this to you).
It was so fun. I kept finding new ways to upgrade it, from projector lights to using Bluetooth headphones like in ear monitors. It was ridiculous. Silly. Cringe. Perfect. It was my saving grace in a season that felt so heavy I could barely move.
Nobody needed to see it. Nobody even had to know. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my imagination—it was mine.
Here’s what I realized: I didn’t need an audience. If I was the only one who loved my music, that was enough. That silly little tour told me what I most needed to hear:
“This is good. This is worth singing. I like it. And that’s what matters.”
I keep thinking about that month—what that version of me would think about these livestreams, this Substack. I think it would scare her. It makes me smile, because it puts the importance of whimsy and imagination and playing pretend even when it feels stupid. I built a confidence behind that $5 microphone that nobody could take away.
Sometimes, we really are being prepared for the next things to come. Even the small things. Even the silly things.
I’ve attached a song to this post, Nosedive, it was the opening song for the silly little tour in my living room.
I love you because you exist,
Faith
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