I am certain that this isn’t a particularly unique experience; but have you ever busted your ass chasing a dream, only for the universe to hit you with “seen’? The sort of pursuit where you genuinely put in the effort to the extent where you almost begin to feel entitled to an outcome. However, after all is said and done, it eventually ends in a fiasco.
The funny twist is—sometimes, out of nowhere, life circles back and hands you the reward when you’ve already moved on, minding your business. Happens to me all the time. Looking back, I’ve finally come to terms that... I’m a certified late bloomer.
By saying I’m a late bloomer, I don’t mean it as an identity badge to embody—perherbs I just can’t find a clever word, and at the same time, I think it might be the perfect stand-in for “delayed gratification,” which, in my opinion, sounds way more tragic. But here’s the kicker—I’ve always known. Time and again, life’s little detours have nudged me toward this realization, though it often felt like a flimsy excuse from a serial self-saboteur—or maybe just a cheeky pep-talk to trick myself into dusting off the failure and moving on with life.
But that’s never quite the case; deep down, beneath the layers of Netflix binges and half-baked “I’ll start tomorrow,” these thoughts seem to resurface; “is this another cosmic test of my patience, or destiny playing twisted hide and seek?”. Eitherways these are all too familiar feelings that point me back to the concept of “late blooming”. Admitting it felt like confessing I’d lost the race before the whistle blew.
I wasn’t quite sure why, but I get it now. Just like “dumb” from my previous blog, “Dumb Genius,” the term “late bloomer” has a PR team from hell.
Seriously, I am enchanted by the word “bloom” (Hell, I might have just found the perfect name for my gourami). But it’s outrageously unfair to slap “late” in front of “bloomer.”? It’s like calling a sunset “delayed daylight”—it sucks all the magic out of the glow.
The term “Late” implies I’ve been dawdling behind some cosmic schedule, twiddling my thumbs while the Early Bloomers out there are collecting gold stars and corner offices. Meanwhile, I’m over here, perfecting the art of napping through deadlines, wondering why my beard isn’t connecting, my voice, a little too thin, second-guessing my life choices, and contemplating life’s mysteries from the throne of my toilet seat eureka moments.
At this point, I’d like to get into this “late” nonsense for a second. It’s not my fault the world’s obsessed with speed-walking through life like it’s a race to the finish line of... what, exactly? A midlife crisis? Unrequited love? Adulting responsibilities? Death? I’d rather take the scenic route—potholes, detours, and all. It’s all coming together. The universe has set the tone and created its standard for what one’s life should be like and its pace, It seems like my life journey is moving at a snail’s pace. But here’s the truth: blooming isn’t about a timetable; it defies the space-time continuum; it’s about the vibe. And my vibe? If I am being honest, my vibe has been one plagued with uncomfortable self-acceptance and painfully figuring things out.
Being a twin with an overachieving twin sibling. I used to squirm at the thought of being a late bloomer. It’s that negative connotation—it’s the pitying head tilt from my folks, the “Oh, you’ll get there eventually” dripping with unspoken “Bless your heart.” But I’ve had an epiphany (probably during a 2 a.m. snack run): Life’s not a conveyor belt. It’s a personal journey, and mine’s been running on what I’m calling Couch Potato Relativity.
Ever heard of Einstein’s twin paradox? Stick with me here—it’s not as complex as it sounds, I promise. Picture this: two twins, one jets off into space at near-light speed, and the other stays home eating chips and overanalyzing The Bachelor. Years later, the space twin comes back, and—plot twist—she’s still youthful and vibrant while the couch twin’s got crow’s feet (crow feet is extreme) and a new found love for artisanal ketchup (there is a scientific postulate that backs up this phenomena, but that’s not the point). They have the same starting point but different timelines. Relativity says it’s all about perspective. The space twin is the late bloomer, taking the long, wild ride, riddled with endless delays, unpredictable twists, and gravity-defying detours, while the couch twin aged out on schedule. Well, that’s how I see it. I’m the space twin—out there on my cosmic detour, blooming late.
I guess what I am driving at is, while the world’s been sprinting through their 20s, I’ve been marinating in my own weird, sizzling stew of self-discovery. The flavor’s finally kicking in. I’m not late to the party—I’m the one showing up with the good snacks when everyone else is already hungover.
So yeah, accepting I’m a late bloomer was uncomfortable at first. It’s like realizing your jeans don’t fit, but instead of buying new ones, you just wear sweatpants for a decade. I’m leaning into it, hard. Because blooming late doesn’t mean I missed the bus—it means I took a long way, got lost in the best kind of chaos, and still ended up with a bouquet worth showing off.
Life is not a standardized test with a “pencils down” moment. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure book, and I’m on the chapter where the slacker hero seemingly gets his shit together—on his terms, with a smirk and a hoodie that says “Slacker’s Revenge.” Einstein would approve. Hell, he’d probably be wearing the matching tote bag.
So here’s to us— the ones who bloom when we damn well please.
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