The Tape Still Rolls

We recently got some old cassettes converted—keeping up with technology, making memories more accessible. But remember, this was the era of cassettes.

One of them was a birthday video. My 7-year-old self couldn’t decide which corner of the room she liked best, so she ran around like her life depended on it. She danced because she wanted to. She smiled and talked—endlessly, effortlessly. And three different people, at different times, watched that video and asked the same question:

“What happened to you?”

You could say mean things to me. You could call me the B-word. You could think I’m too artsy or too proper. I don’t know. But somehow, that question cut deeper than any insult ever could. What was it supposed to mean?

I know I’m not always noticed when I walk into a room. I know I can be too quiet. I know my weariness sometimes shows more than I want it to. I know I’m not always the most pleasant company. But more than anything, I know I didn’t choose any of that.

Maybe you didn’t either. I know people who walk into a room like sunshine spilling through the windows, the ones everyone looks forward to having around. The smiley emojis of the group. And man, I wish that were me. Just once.

But time doesn’t ask for permission before it changes you.

“Time has done changed me.” That’s what Miley Cyrus croons in that song, right? But I still think of Miley as Hannah Montana, singing Nobody’s Perfect in that signature blonde wig. She was once a version of herself that fit into what people expected. Then she wasn’t. And people were aghast. And then she wasn’t again. And again. Time does that.

Some moments that are bittersweet to visit, welcome you with open arms. These lines fit like hand in glove. :)

Time makes you stronger for it when you think you were at your weakest.
Time makes you think twice before breaking into a smile.
Time tells you that you don’t always have to break into a dance.
Time reprimands you for yapping about things nobody else cares about.
And man, time can be the B-word.

But here’s the thing—change isn’t erasure. It’s just layering.

There are still parts of me that would rather cry under a blanket where no one can see. That still smile at a joke long after it’s been told. That still groove, ever so subtly, when Chaiyya Chaiyya comes plays unexpectedly. That still keeps yapping when someone looks at me with their eyes saying, “Tell me more.” Because these parts are no longer dazzling sparks, but embers that burn softly. They are still there.

I told you to remember the cassettes? Cassettes seem obsolete in a world of icons, but they didn’t disappear. They transitioned. And none of those conversions would’ve meant anything if the cassette never had its content in the first place.

Reader, aren’t me and you just that?

What happened to us? Nothing. We had to transition. And even though there aren’t always VCR slots for us anymore, it doesn’t mean we can’t be seen. It just means we’re waiting for the right format, the right moment, the right people.

And if there’s a cassette version of you that the one-click-away-icon version of you is shamed for not being anymore—I hope you take a deep breath and remind yourself: it’s okay. You can only rewind to visit memories, not go back in time. You can fast-forward to see what’s ahead on tape, but not predict the future. You can pause, but not dwell too much. That version of you is not gone—it just coexists with who you are now.

All I’m saying is, if something changed us for good or bad, we can’t undo it.

Except look forward to who we are going to become tomorrow. Because our videotapes? They’re still rolling.