Written by Grace Whittaker
Entering my twenties has felt like the beginning of a countdown. I’m no longer ten, impatiently daydreaming about who and where I might be in a decade’s time.
That optimistic timeline I’ve curated for myself over the years now feels more daunting than exciting. Those milestones I’ve imagined since childhood suddenly seem like a series of races. One where the ribbons keep moving further away from where I expected to cross them.
I feel like this time of our lives is designed to make us question everything. Did I pick the right degree? Will I pass? Am I fit for this career? How will I ever afford a house? Should I start saving now? Do I travel instead? Are we still friends? Will this relationship last? Will I ever find my person?
The list goes on and so does the doubt. It is rarely a time of certainty. Which is equally terrifying and freeing. Some days I feel like I am far too much and others I feel like I am barely enough.
Yet at times it can be tricky to decide whose expectations I’m trying to live up to most. Mine or everyone else’s?
I’m not the girl you’ll catch out drinking often on a Saturday night. Nor one you can regularly find hidden in the library being the most studious version of herself. I’m full of academic guilt but I’m also burnt out. I get anxious over the smallest things and I’m quiet around people I don’t know. Yet around those I do know, I’m so very loud. I have a temper but I’m a people-pleaser. I don’t want to participate in hookup culture. My heart is far too big for casual.
Sometimes I feel too silly. Other times, too mature.
All of these are reasons I feel behind. Not smart enough. Not likeable enough. Not social enough. I feel the pressure to enjoy my early twenties through parties and big nights out. But I’m just not that girl. Some people are and that is more than fine. But I can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on something, even if it’s not something I really enjoy.
Yet when I pause, I realise these aren’t even expectations I have for myself or would even expect from others. It’s simply the norms of the world we live in, and the painful result of self-comparison. Then I take the time to reframe myself.
I’m a girl who values cosy nights in. The one enjoying the sunlight on an afternoon walk. The one with a facemask on, a drafted novel on her desk, and houseplants surrounding her. I’m probably rereading The Hobbit. I am most definitely daydreaming about travel. Always choosing my wide-open spaces. And my animals.
The girl looking for connection in a world where it can feel fleeting. A memories-over-money kind of girl. A family girl. A farm girl. Praying I can make a difference in the mental health field. Observing every bit of human behaviour I can. Singing my heart out behind closed doors. Sharing love the same way I’d want to receive it. The one with a heart far too big for my chest. Forever being far goofier than many would expect me to be.
And just like that I feel like I am exactly where I’m meant to be. The point is: you were always meant to be the main character in your own story. As a writer of fiction, I can vouch that this goes for our own lives too. You cannot force your timeline, so start living your life with faith that you will cross those ribbons when you need to. Ten-year-old you will be proud either way.
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