My grandmother always told me to believe in Fate. At five, eleven, seventeen and just months shy of being twenty-two, she still reminds me to never forget fate. For the past few years, I look away or nod along, feeling overwhelmed by the guilt; the guilt of lying to her and to myself. I used to be a believer in Fate. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be. One night, more than two years ago, a beloved friend of mine called me, heartbroken and devasted. We were both heartbroken and devasted. The only words I had to comfort her and myself with were, “Everything happens for the best, and if it’s meant to be, it will all fall into place.”
When things aren’t going right and everything seems as though they’re falling to pieces, she reminds me of what I once told her. But I still found it hard to believe. I lost my faith in Fate somewhere between too many heartbreaks and loses. I felt as though I’d lost my belief in everything; as though nothing believed in me any longer. I’d done all the right things. I’d never lied, cheated or intentionally hurt others. I loved beyond what my heart could offer. And yet I could get nothing right. So I got angry and I stopped believing. Yet no matter how much I tried and pushed and worked, if it wasn’t meant to be, it would never be.
But today I’m setting aside the cynic in me. It never felt like it was mine. It never grew into me; it made me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. And today I’m going to be naïve, simple, the way I used to be. I’m going to stop pushing and trying and forcing for things that resist me. I’m going to go back to being the girl with the rose-tinted glasses, the one who laughed harder, smiled brighter, loved stronger. And I’ll let it be, because it’s meant to be.
