I remember my grandmother used to say I was a “hard-headed” child.
My mother said it too. I feel like most of the adults I knew growing up would’ve described me as “hard-headed.” I used to think it was a bad thing. To be labeled “hard-headed” meant I was a bad child. I was disobedient. I was difficult. At least that’s the way I interpreted their meaning of the term.
But actually I wasn’t a bad child.
In fact, looking back I feel like I was a pretty good kid. I got good grades in school. I was ambitious. I was a hard worker. I never really got into trouble – like serious, parents getting calls in the middle of the night from police officers and having to drive down to the station with bail money- trouble. I pretty much followed the rules- though I didn’t always follow instruction well. I was a bit of a daydreamer and a chronic fantasiser. It’s just who I was as a budding (albeit, flighty) artist.
But I wasn’t a bad kid.
I was a good kid.
I was also hard-headed.
Meaning, I was stubborn. Once I figured out what I wanted or decided that something was a good idea I went after it. Especially when it came to things that other people said I couldn’t have. That’s when my stubbornness really kicked in. In fact, the best thing anyone could ever do for me was tell me ‘no’. Then most assuredly, I would chase that thing like there was no tomorrow.
Sometimes my stubbornness lead me to chase things (or people) that weren’t good for me. But most times, like when it came to college or London (haha, I never tire of talking about London), it was always a good thing.