Sometimes, I am truly caught off-guard by this thing called life.

Today, as I was sitting in KafeKalu—a chic cafe off Nanjing Road— the distinct, sweet fragrance of freshly baked pastries wafted around me. It’s a scent I know all too well. As a young girl, my mother would spot me peeking into the kitchen as she baked all those precious Johnny Cakes. My mouth waters at the thought of it! She would always beckon with her dough-covered hands that it was OK, I could come in, the oven wasn’t too hot yet and it was safe. I remember those Johnny Cake-making days with much fondness. I miss them. I miss home.

Though these pastries had nothing on my mom’s Caribbean delicacies, I couldn’t help but to take a moment away from my glaring computer screen to try and savor their aroma and enjoy the view from outside the cafe’s windows. It wasn’t long before a wave of gratitude and joy settled over me. I must have looked like a crazy person to the Shanghainese people around me, smiling over nothing. But I wasn’t smiling over nothing.

I smiled because outside the window was a family—a mother, a grandfather, an older brother, and a little sister. The little sister couldn’t have been more than six years old, but her brother must have been around eleven or twelve. As the family waited for the street light to give them the right of way, the grandfather reached down to hold the little girl’s hand to help lead her safely across the street when the time came. Seeing this, the mother looked down and went to hold the older boy’s hand only to find that there was no hand to hold. The light had changed and he was already halfway across the street with his shoulders back and head held high, confident. His little sister happened to see him too and tried to run after him. She also wanted to stand on her own two feet, but the moment her grandfather let her hand go, she tumbled. It wasn’t a hard fall, but still, she was down.

As strange and far-fetched as this may sound, laying witness to this family’s exchange—as small as it was— reminded me of my own past restraints and how I’ve come to grow from them. That little girl wasn’t ready to walk across the street on her own yet. Just as I was not ready when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen years-old to dedicate the amount of time and effort necessary to deliver good content for “Moments with Alexa Claire”. I had been frustrated for so long and silently berating myself behind closed doors for not starting my brand earlier. For not believing in and investing in myself earlier.

The truth is: I just was not ready. I was scared. I wasn’t prepared to embark on this life journey of soul-searching and identifying who I am. Because that is what “Moments with Alexa Claire” is to me. It is not solely a brand idea or something to put on my resume. For me, this brand and all it stands to become is part of who I am. It must be authentic and represent the “me” I am today, the “me” I was yesterday, and the “me” I hope to become tomorrow. But, for so long, in the back of my mind I wondered, “How could I claim to want to help, inspire, or uplift others when, in truth, I was not ready to do those things for myself?” How could I stand to launch something with the mission to service others when I wasn’t already prepared to start working myself?

Don’t get me wrong, I knew that at some point I would make “Moments with Alexa Claire” a reality. That was never in question. The issue was that I felt I wasn’t ready to actively pursue it. I used to beat down on myself by chalking it up to being lazy. I would tell myself that I wasn’t hungry enough for it or that I didn’t have the “hustler spirit”. That, due to my upbringing, I was too soft and lacked the grit necessary for the kind of hard work my desired career path required. I played every “What If” scenario I could imagine. “What if nobody likes it?” “What if people think it’s horrible?” “What if it’s a waste of time?” I was afraid of tumbling, just as that little girl had, in front of everybody.

I came up with all of these excuses to try and deflect the truth. But they never helped me mask the issue or put a band-aid on the pain—because it is painful, in some ways, to know that there is something in life that you should be doing, that you are meant to do, but aren’t for whatever reason—rather, it made it hurt that much more.

Since I was ten years-old, I’ve treated journal writing as if it were a religious act. I devoted myself to it. Every now and then, I like to take time to go back and read old entries. Sometimes, I laugh at how stressed I was over the smallest of things or I’ll cry at how sad I was at certain points in my life. For the most part, I smile. After every few entries, I would write lists of promises to myself. As the years passed, my focus on life shifted outwardly: “I promise not to John Cena my little brother anymore,” became, “I promise to sit next to someone new at lunch,” then, “I promise to apply for my first job by the end of the year,” and finally, “I promise to finally launch, Moments with Alexa Claire.”

Now that I am nineteen, I feel good. I feel right. Things are falling into place. I’m comfortable in spaces and parts of my life that I wasn’t before. Maybe it is just growing up, but I like to think that I had a little something to do with ushering in these good moments and feelings into my life.

As that family made their way down the street and out of my line of sight, I couldn’t help but laugh and think that I wasn’t the little girl anymore, now I am the older brother, with my head held high and my shoulders back, ready to fulfill whatever new promises I make to myself.

Now, I am ready and it is OK that I wasn’t before.