18

A personal essay by Annie Thompson

 To the Chinese it is yāo bā, to the Jewish it is chaí, to the Hindi it is Jaya. To me, it is free.  

As a teenager, I knew everything. My eyes often rolled at well-meaning, meddling parents. Sometimes I wished they didn't care quite so much, didn't still see me as a child. Dying for freedom from supervision and rules, I daydreamed about turning 18. Graduating from high school. Moving to Utah for college. Escaping. I longed for those independent days while I argued with siblings about bathroom turns, while I grudgingly completed chores, while I sat in class, bored out of my mind. I didn't know what adulting would be, what it would mean. To me, 18 was total freedom; complete independence. Until it happened. Until I was sitting alone in a cold apartment that I didn't have money to pay for. And I realized I was still a child.

Utah seemed worlds away from my home in Texas. True, I was free in ways. I was no longer bound by parents' supervision and rules. I was a college student. But in ways, that made life harder instead of easier. I realized doing things on my own time, in my own way required more responsibility and diligence than I had imagined. Turning 18 was not just a huge party. It was a wake up call.

18. So much more than escape, so much more than independence, so much more than freedom. Through time, through space, through religion, through cultures, the number carries weight. To the Chinese, it is yāo bā, (prosperity) to the Jewish chaí, (life) to the Hindi Jaya (victory). To each, the number holds significance based on parts that become whole within it. Independence. Prosperity. Spiritual purpose. The root numbers reduce to 1: individuality, assertiveness, initiative, leadership; and 8: abundance, fulfillment of wishes.  9 signifies completeness and eternity, greatly enhanced when doubled into 18.

I didn't understand any of this when I first moved from Texas to Utah, and I wouldn't start understanding until I moved again, from Utah to Washington.


April 2015-October 2016. 18 months.

"Dear Sister Lyman: You are assigned to labor in the Washington Federal Way Mission."

And labor I did.

I had no idea serving an 18 month mission for my church would be so hard.

I learned what it meant to be completely alone in Washington- to silently sob into my pillow, to let my tears mix with the water in the shower, to feel so misunderstood, a stranger in my new life. I learned what it meant to truly love in Washington- to walk up to random strangers and start conversations, to pull weeds with old ladies who talk too much about nothing, to live with girls who refuse to open up.  I learned what it meant to be heavily burdened in Washington- to be so homesick it hurt. I learned what it meant to be finally free in Washington- to let go of my own heartache and pain and allow God to heal me.


April 2017-October 2018. 2 years later. 18 more months.

“It’s Annie, right? Are you free this Friday?”

 Mere moments ago, he had smiled at me from the long line, handed me a French bread sandwich to ring up, and disappeared into the crowd. I had watched him go, slightly confused and disappointed, certain that he had wanted to say more. And then the smile was back, waiting for my answer.

“My roommate and I are planning a double date, and I’d like to take you.”

 Conflicting thoughts played bumper cars in my head: I already had a date … but I could cancel it … no, I shouldn’t … I could… I won’t … Blinking fast, I met his eyes, and blushed red at that smile. “I have plans that night, but another time…” His smile began to fade, then returned at my last words.

 I gave him my number.

‘Another time’ translated to ‘all the time.’ I dialed home to break the news. “Mom, I don’t think I’m coming home this summer. I don’t want to change family plans for just some guy, but…”

“Is he just some guy? Or is he my future son-in-law?”

Breath escaped my body all at once, slowing and speeding time simultaneously. “I…I don’t know.”

“You better stay and find out.”

I woke up the morning of the wedding, appetite gone, nerves fresh, feeling the most uncertain and certain I’ve ever been. Uncertain that I was really old enough to make this decision. Certain that it was right.

Being married, turns out, is not simple. It's not easy. But with all the heartache and worry and joy and love and laughter and tears and sweat of life comes freedom. True freedom, not the do what I want when I want how I want freedom. The freedom of knowing I can be completely myself. The freedom to take risks and know someone's got my back. The freedom to mess up over and over, yet consistently be loved and supported. The freedom to grow. 

18. The number carries so much meaning throughout time and space, manifest in various cultures and religions. The memories of distinct, separate moments unite within the number for me. Independence. Spiritual purpose. Prosperity. To the Chinese it is yāo bā, to the Jewish it is chaí, to the Hindi it is Jaya. To me? To me, it is free.