Six Years Later....

25 is weird. Really, bizarre. Not quite sure if I’m supposed to be settled, not quite sure if I’m supposed to be living some vagabond, adventurous lifestyle of exploration. Every buzzfeed article I read tells me I should veer toward the latter. “17 reasons to quit your job and travel” “25 ways to know you’re not ready to settle down!” Click bait. Click bait. Click bait.

25 is an exciting time. As I go to sleep right now, I await the arrival of a special little girl who is in the process of being born. My best friend is anxiously anticipating the birth of her first niece, and I am thrilled. We’ve already scoured the racks of Target together, in search of the cutest little gal clothes. We laughed aloud as we sorted through peplum dresses and peacoats…for 3-6 month olds. I mean come on, why does a 3 month old need an outfit suited for a middle aged wedding attendee? But oh man, was it cute! At 25, you are old enough to be an aunt, and that is indeed special.

25 is a disheartening time. A lot of emotions re-surfaced this week surrounding a breakup. Seeing my first love, a year after we’d broken up. Wanting to be his friend….hearing from him that “friends” is not in the cards from us. Seeing pictures of him with a new someone. Disconnecting via social media. 25 is the time you make relational decisions that have long term strings attached. You break up with the person who may not be the right fit for that potential, elusive, “forever.” And you doubt that decision at every twist and turn that life throws.

25 is a narrowing time. At 25 I’ve defined my closest friends. I know who they are, and I know what it means to have quality relationships. I know that unfortunately some friendships fade and that’s ok. It’s acceptable and isn’t a negative reflection on anyone. At 25, I’m happy living with my best friend. I know that it means constant laughter and minimal stress. I say things like, “How sad when we have to get married and move out and can’t live with each other anymore,” because that’s how great it is to live with your best friend, at 25, in a tiny shoebox of an apartment by the beach. Because when your best friend is your roommate, she knows when you put on workout clothes with no intention of breaking a sweat. She knows that for you, Fridays nights are for lounging with Netflix and Saturdays nights are for dancing on tables. She knows that you lie about your height on your Hinge profile and that swiping was only meant to be done side-by-side, laughing all the while.

At 25, I treat my dog like he is my kid. At 25 I’m still allowed to have days where I wish I was on track to having an actual kid but know that I’m nowhere close. At 25 I have a professional career, but am still looking for more meaning in the workplace. At 25 I breakdown crying on a monthly basis for the hardships that overwhelm the families in my vicinity. I listen as each friend tells me of their loved ones who have been checked into rehab, sentenced to jail, are battling issues of mental health, have taken their own lives. 25 has meant a lot of pain and sorrow, for hurting adults. And at 25, you’re not shielded from this knowledge and you are not immune to the effects.

At 25, I’m documenting 25. All of the weird, fun, and unique aspects of being 25. And that’s all there is to it.