maybe i should write about it.
Maybe I should write about it.
Maybe I should talk about the nuances of being 25: the fun, the terror, the heartache, the rush, the thrill of not knowing what life is, but having every intent to experience it and feel every bit of it.
At 20, I figured out what it meant to be single—yearning, but falling in love with every friend, every stranger, and every moment. What a gift it is to feel so deeply and passionately.
At 21, I fell in love—for real this time. I experienced what it’s like to want to rip yourself apart to give every bit of your body and soul to one person you know will hold it and nurture it. I found out what it’s like to have your heart weigh a thousand pounds because it just wants to mirror the one who mirrors your being. My inner child came home because it found a safe place to run to. All these things only made me realize how spooky, and yet how lucky I am to experience something so pure at such a young age – though my soul feels like it’s lived many lives.
At 22, I found out what it’s like to hurt terribly—to have a bleeding wound hidden beneath the surface, so quiet it doesn’t disturb the tides. My body felt this pain, even though I didn’t. I sat in the eye of the storm while everything around me wreaked havoc. It occasionally rocked me too, but I wouldn’t let it carry me away. I let it rock me to sleep.
At 23, something changed. A part of me died, and a part of me was born. Maybe this was the year I shed the skin I’d been wearing all through my youth. There was no one there to nurse me through the change, and I knew I had to be okay with that. I did better than I thought I would. I embraced what wasn’t familiar to me anymore. I knew I was always capable of adapting to the unknown and the unseen—ready or not, and I did it.
At 24, I fell in love again. But this time with an old friend, and she was the one I’ve been yearning for since I was a child. She is kind, compassionate, and unsure of herself, but she does her best. I am proud of her. She got us through a lot this year.
At 24, I know I did my best. I loved in ways I didn’t know I could. I gave in ways I didn’t know I could. A broken heart lay behind my ribs. I molted the hardness that surrounded the tenderness; I made space in the hollow cavity. Three and a half years was a blessing. How lucky am I to have experienced something so real at such a young age? I am so thankful that the hurt is a physical manifestation that love is real and tangible. It reminds me that everything I felt was real and tangible—it exists. I love the girl in me who loved so much. I love her because she still believes in love.
At 25, I’m alone again. I’m okay with it, I think. I carry these experiences with me—in my bones, my hair, my body. I feel them the way shoes leave traces of the feet that reside in them, or the way my scent lingers in my clothes when I shed them. I believe in goodness even when things aren’t always good. I believe in love even when I’m hurt. I enter this quarter of my life knowing I’m in control of nothing but my own perception of what I expect from the world. I carry my heart on my sleeve, and I’m not ashamed of it. I think it’s a hard thing to do, but I feel really strong for it—it gives me confidence knowing I can love so well. If you’re reading this still, I pray you believe in all the sweet tenderness that life presents, even when it’s dark and stormy outside. I lean into the unknown, knowing I’ll be okay, just as I was at 20, 21, 22, 23, and 24.
—From my notes app
