I’m almost done with my 20’s.
Wait. I need that to sink in for a moment.
Man. I am almost done with an entire decade. An entire decade of my own making.
… and, besides this overwhelming sense of self-awareness, the truth is that I’m not really sure how to feel.
Because, on one hand, getting older is terrifying.
It’s a step towards decay and death — which is morbid, I know. But it’s real, too, and the real cannot just be ignored.
It means dealing with being an adult in new and unpredictable ways; dealing with changes and friendship fade-outs and eventual life transitions that I might not be the least bit ready for.
The truth is I still feel 21 sometimes. Sometimes it feels like I’ve only just begun to know the world. There are days when it all feels new, days that feel like I haven’t lived a million lifetimes before, like I actually just got here.
But then I hear the very distinct rumble of certainty. And I remember.
I remember that I am no longer just a girl standing on the precipice of the great, wide unknown, waiting for her whole life to unfold right before her. This sense of sureness, this rootedness of self, points me back to the fact that I am no longer starry-eyed and young.
I remember that I am a woman, entering her third decade of life. There is a confidence that wasn’t there before. There is the spine to own up to the things that I break and the grace to start over when I need to. At 28, I don’t get my no’s and my yeses mixed up anymore like I used to and that almost feels worth ditching the magic of youth for.
I might look back on this when I start closing in on 40 and laugh, thinking: “Oh, you silly girl, you knew so little.”
But tonight, as I think about all the future me’s just waiting to exist, this little feels enough.