There’s no second chance at life. The same can be said about growing up. Growing up is hard. You may grow at various points in this lifetime, but you will never go through childhood and adolescence more than once. I wrote an article titled ‘Bringing it Home’ almost two years ago on the Huffington Post about how I came across my middle school yearbook one evening while visiting my parent’s house and came to the conclusion that my generation’s time to lead society to making a difference is now. It always has been, but now more than ever.

2017. What a strange year. I don’t know why and I can’t find ways to explain it to you, but it was. Reflecting on this past year, I find myself at a loss because I can’t find much to reflect on. I let photography slip away from me these last 12 months. The whole year was uninspiring in general. I never got to the majority of the things I set out to do. Let alone strive for my goals, I didn’t do much of anything to begin with. When the days seemed long, the time went by quick. Even at my highest productivity levels, no progress seemed to be made. It’s been a year that at first thought is easily forgettable, but when challenged to dig deeper, will be a year I’ll find to be worthwhile of longing for.

The power of nostalgia.

There’s times when things feel alright, there’s times when things don’t. Acceptance is a part of life I’m not sure I’ll ever fully accept. Sometimes there’s no logical explanation as to why things happen. I’m notorious to myself for living in the past. The inability to let things go has hindered me from making the most of the moment, but ironically, it’s given me the ability to make the most of those moments later. It’s like waiting to cash in a check when you need it rather than when you want it. Reflecting on the past inspires me, it really does. Time is linear and there’s many forks in the road, but if you think about it long enough, you’re a different person multiple times in your life despite what your conscious tells you.

My first experience with Halloween I can recollect would have to be in either 1995 or 1996. Perhaps it was ‘95 because I believe my dad graduated Duke in ’96, which is when we moved into our first house as a family. Regardless, my brother and sister were dressed up. We lived in an apartment complex in Durham, and I could see kids by the bunches beginning to go out and fill the complex with joy and laughter from our window behind the couch. They were dressed strange--though I didn’t know what strange was at the time—but they seemed to be having fun, another concept in which I couldn’t define to myself during that time either. Crazy how you can feel things without having the ability to explain them, still happens often as far as I’m concerned.

My parents were helping my brother and sister get their costumes ready. They explained to me they were getting free candy for dressing up from the neighbors. Although I wasn’t familiar with the tradition of Halloween, I was familiar with candy. My mom would give me a piece of candy in what seemed to be once every blue moon, but I savored every time I received a piece. I was excited until I found out I wasn’t going trick or treating. I complained. I screamed. I cried. Still, to no avail, I never went out with my brother and sister that night. They came back with bags full of candy later in the night and were kind enough to share it with me.