The Club of Change

People say “Don’t change.”
Or “Don’t forget about the little people.”

I never understood that. Then or now.

What little people? Why are they calling themselves that? This isn’t a weight comment, just to be clear. It’s a language thing. A self-worth thing. An unintentional admission that they’ve always seen themselves as less. And if they did, then why are they mad when someone else grows, becomes, transforms?

(Side note: I looked it up. The phrase “don’t forget the little people” was popularized in Hollywood, where rising stars were told not to forget the assistants, drivers, caterers, the underdogs who helped them get where they are. Fair. But also… aren’t we all the little people sometimes? Even the big ones. Especially the big ones when they fall.)

The fact is we do change.
We are always becoming.
I’m becoming someone new even as I write this. And honestly, I’m excited to meet him. Or am I?

I always thought the word excited meant something else.
As a kid, if I said I was excited, what I really meant was I was nervous.
Excited for the trip? Nope. Just anxious I forgot my socks and my grandma would scream, “You want to catch pneumonia? In June? Bravo.”
Because in my house, socks were currency. You lose one and suddenly you’re the reason the empire fell.
FYI I love to be barefoot and a nice cold floor. I’m one of those I’m always hot and sweating. Me on the dance floor is like Mike Tyson in a boxing match.

Excited for the show? No. Just dreading I’d forget my line and get heckled by some dad who thinks he’s funnier than he is.
And if I messed up, I’d hear about it after. Not from the audience. From my family. The kind of people who clap loud and then critique louder on the car ride home while chewing sunflower seeds and trauma.

People ask “Are you excited for the movie? The show? The trip?”
And I want to say “I’m happy I’m going, but excited? No. Nervous? No. Somewhere in the middle? Yes. Probably that.”

So what is that feeling?
The not quite excited, not quite fearful middle space?
It’s something like readiness. Like being on the edge of a moment and knowing you’re about to shift.

Because the truth is change doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it crashes through the ceiling like a raccoon in a New Jersey attic. Or like your aunt during an uninvited visit with two containers of soup and a question about why you’re still single.

A death changes you.
A war changes you.
Being ghosted by a best friend you swore would be at your wedding changes you.
And no one gives you a handbook on how to knock on their door and say “Hey, what happened?”
Most of us just keep the silence. Some out of fear, others out of pride, and some because they’re still waiting for their grandma to say “I’m proud of you” without also asking why your jeans have holes.

But change doesn’t wait for closure.

A trip can change your life.
Getting in a car, or on a plane, or even walking to get a bagel can do it.
A stranger says something that stays in your head for ten years.
You look at the ocean and cry for no reason.
You forget why you were mad and remember why you love someone.
You grow out of grudges like old shoes. They don’t fit anymore. And they smell.

So to the people who write “don’t change” in birthday cards or worse, raise a glass and say it like one of those long toasts from back home where the vodka is warm and the sentiment is lukewarm, I say:

Please change.
Change and do it for the people.
But also keep in mind that conclusions will change you too.
So hold an open mind. And an open heart.

Surviving COVID changed me.
Finding out I had cancer at 25 changed me.
Losing friends, losing grandparents, losing my GameBoy, losing and finding myself changed me.
The war in Ukraine changed me. October 7th changed me.
Drowning like an idiot in a pool at 19 changed me too.

And growing up in a house where emotions were pickled and stored on the top shelf for special occasions? That’ll change you too.

But I’m still here.
And I get to tell this story. And maybe it’ll change you.

If it does, I’m sorry.
And I hope it’s for the better.

This isn’t a story for pity. It’s a welcome.
To the club nobody tells you about.
The club of change.
And survival.
And gratitude.
And becoming.