32 Flavors (And Then Some)… (2-2)

Consent (The Ticket)

This piece is about growing up and self-image—early crushes, regret and nostalgia, and the moment you realize the “small world” you came from wasn’t the whole map.

If school years, identity, or “who I used to be” is tender for you right now—if old memories still land like evidence—read this only if it feels grounding, not punishing.

If it starts to hit too close or turn heavy instead of clarifying, it’s okay to skim it, save it, or walk away halfway through if your body starts tightening up more than it opens.

— Zan

Scene (The Ride)

I used to think being a person was a pretty simple assignment.

You showed up where you were supposed to be, mostly on time, and did the work in front of you.

Listening to music alone, I was sure every song that hit right was written exactly about my life, and every chorus that landed felt like the universe briefly calling my name.

I thought heartbreak meant a disagreement with friends or someone taking too long to write back.

I didn’t yet realize that most of what I called “drama” was just growing pains inside a small container.

When I went to school, it felt like that building was the entire known world, and passing classes was the whole point of life.

Homework felt like something I was told would matter later, even though it never once resembled the life I said I wanted.

I treated “later” like an endless safety net, assuming there’d always be more time to figure everything out.

What really mattered was catching the latest spectacle—on a screen, on a stage, or through a controller—and quoting it later with my friends.

Inside jokes felt like a secret language that meant I was in instead of outside.

The seasons were more than weather; summer meant freedom, fall meant a reset, winter meant hiding out, and spring meant the hope I might finally become someone new.

I knew I had a body; I just hadn’t turned it into a side quest, a problem, or a performance yet.

I noticed the little flaws on the outside as they came and went, but I hadn’t yet turned my whole reflection into evidence for or against my right to exist.

I still believed that the right look—hair, shoes, the way a piece of cloth sat on my shoulders—might unlock a better version of myself, for others to see, overnight.

My biggest rebellions were tiny: skipping things I was “supposed” to show up for and pretending it was a scheduling error.

Sometimes I copied what my friends tried; sometimes I did the opposite and felt the rejection immediately.

I thought being “different” meant liking things that weren’t on everyone else’s list yet, like I could copyright a personality by going slightly off-menu.

Every message, every call, every invitation felt like a referendum on whether I was worth remembering.

When I said I “knew what I wanted,” what I really meant was that I knew who I wanted to be right now, not who I’d have to live with later.

I believed that if I worked hard, stayed kind, and didn’t screw up too loudly, life would hand out the rewards on schedule.

I assumed every crush would either turn into a life-long relationship or a clean, obvious rejection I could eventually forgot about.

I didn’t yet understand that you can drift away from people who never hurt you and still carry them like a quiet echo through everything that comes next.

I thought “the real world” was an event you arrived at, not the slow, messy in-between I was already living through.

I hadn’t learned yet how easy it is for a single intense moment to burn its way onto an identity.

I could still believe that one night, one conversation, one radical feeling might change everything all at once.

I didn’t know yet how many versions of myself I would have to outgrow just to stay true to who I am when no one else is around.

I didn’t know yet how many flavors of who I was I’d try on, wash off, spit out, and carry forward in small, stubborn pieces.

I only knew that I was standing at the edge of whatever came next, convinced I was too aware to ever really get lost.

I was sure I was just fearless enough that nothing could really stop the life I was sprinting toward.

I didn’t see that some of the traps I swore I’d never fall into were already shaped like my own thoughts — and that I’d get a say in which ones I kept and which ones I outgrew.

I didn’t know that growing up would mean slowly learning which parts of myself were worth keeping, and which were just noise I could finally shed.

I didn’t realize I wouldn’t “find” myself out there somewhere — I’d have to choose who I was going to be, and keep answering to that choice when nobody was talking at…

me.

Companion track: “32 Flavors” – Alana Davis

Aftercare (The Comedown)

If this pulled you back into school-year versions of yourself—crushes that felt cosmic, silence that felt like a verdict—good. Not “good” because it hurts, but because it means you can see the scale now. That era was a snow globe: everything looked permanent because the world was small.

This isn’t a nostalgia trap and it’s not a roast. Your younger self wasn’t “wrong” for taking it all seriously—they were building a self with the tools available: music, mirrors, friends, and whatever hope could fit in a day. The point here isn’t to relive it; it’s to recognize what you carried forward, and what you’re allowed to drop.

So keep the real parts: the tenderness, the hunger, the wanting-to-become. Drop the old math that said your worth lived in being chosen, being noticed, being “in.” You don’t have to erase that version of you to outgrow them—you just stop letting that version run the room.

Cycle II – Coming of Age (The Hidden Life) · 02 (v1.00)

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