A month ago today, I turned twenty-five. There are a lot of mixed feelings hitting twenty-five. In so many ways, I’m thankful I made it this far. It’s a milestone I’m glad I’ve reached. Every birthday is a celebration that I’m still here and healthy. But on the other hand, I feel damn old.
I find myself saying, “Well, back in my day….” and “When I was a teenager…” or “They don’t make music like they did back when I was young.” Comments like that make me sound eighty-five instead of twenty-five.
Being twenty-five comes with a lot of expectations. When I was younger, I thought by the time I was twenty-five, I’d be living in Manhattan, hosting TRL and living the most glamorous life. That did not turn out to be the case. Thirty is right around the corner, and there’s so much I want to do before then. I want to travel, move out on my own, fall in love, have more experiences and become that person I’ve always wanted to be.
Recently, I’ve been told I’m a bit immature. I may be twenty-five in age, but on the inside, I’m about seventeen, and I completely agree with that because being mature comes with life experiences, and I don’t have very many. I’m still very sheltered, I still lose myself in my fiction and books. Maybe it’s time to grow up.
But who says age should determine where you are in your life? I’m sort of happy that I still have a youthful spirit, and don’t look twenty-five.
The only thing that’s hard with getting older is losing sight of dreams. I find that I’m starting to believe that my dreams won’t come true. My dream of moving to NYC, and becoming a writer seems absolutely crazy, unlike when I was fourteen and was convinced it would come true. Realizing your dreams will never come true is one of the hardest and saddest parts of growing up.
This year has started off pretty good, so hopefully I’ll experience a bunch of new things to make my 25th year memorable.