Published on September 10, 2020
I remember when I turned sixteen years old, I told myself, “There’s really only two more epic birthdays after this. When I turn eighteen I’ll be able to vote, and when I turn twenty one I’ll be able to drink.”
And I was basically right. Between the ages of sixteen and twenty one, I had the time of my life. I was on fire for life, and I took one leap of faith after another. I kept myself busy discovering the world and myself. I traveled, I lived on my own, I made so many new friends. I formed opinions on the issues that affect the world, and I developed social and professional skills. Those five years were simply the best.
And then suddenly one minute you’re giggling with your new friends in a freshman dorm because you just got back from three hours at a fun campus event, and then the next minute you’re rolling your eyes at the supermarket because your favorite snack isn’t on sale — AGAIN. One minute you’re the “mom friend” and holding your friends hair back in a tiny stall at a college bar in a big city, then the next minute you’re actually called a mom in the paint store while struggling to comprehend the difference between one paint swatch labeled “Old Blue Jeans” and another one called “Denim Blue.” One minute you’re chasing after an Uber at 3:30 in the morning with your friend to get back to her apartment, and the next you’re in bed by 10:30pm wishing to God for an early retirement (Is next month too much to ask?). One minute you’re sprinting down the dorm stairs and out the door at 11:59pm just so that the RA won’t write you up for violating visitation hours, and the next minute you’re on a work call with a stranger and they say to you, “Well, us old folks don’t get our news in the same way young people do nowadays…”
I never dreamed of being twenty-two. I basically just wanted to ride this high for the rest of my life. I have just never really been a big planner. I look around now and see my friends, colleagues, and fellow alumni my age who are all looking toward the future. I cannot even begin to try to count the number of engagements, weddings, or children that have come into existence in the past year or two. Life seems to go so fast for some people, and yet, here I am — stuck in my childhood bedroom struggling to find a long-term goal or purpose.
I joke a lot — probably far more than appropriate — that I peaked in college, but there is a lot of truth to it. I was always busy. There was never a moment that I felt purposeless or lost. People would see my Google Calendar and shudder at the sight of the color-coded boxes that took up any and all white space, making a nice, organized rainbow. But I was happy. I was absolutely thriving. I had my routine and was surrounded by a supportive group of friends and colleagues. Most of all, I had my independence. It gave me a strength inside that made me unafraid of coming on too strong. My confidence was unshakeable, and my spirits were high. I owed nothing to no one. Even the little things — such as choosing when and where to eat and with whom or going to the gym and running errands — were the most joyous decisions I’d make on a daily basis. I didn’t live my life just to please others. I was the woman who called my own shots. I truly embraced my four years of college, and I found myself and developed my voice. I thoroughly loved my freedom. I loved the life I made for myself.
And then March of 2020 came around. The world became wrapped up in mass hysteria and shattered my daily routine. Now, let me be very clear in stating that I hate — yes, this strong word does apply here — I hate blaming external factors when I am unhappy with my circumstances. I almost always have a backup plan or tricks up my sleeve to better my situation and keep myself on track.
However, these past six months have been some of the hardest times of my life. My university forcing me back into my childhood home where the shadows of the worst version of myself dwell has transformed my inner sense of worth into a deep sense of doubt. Suddenly, my environment was no longer a fun campus in a big city with friends my age supporting me. Suddenly, I was treated like a teenager again and expected to return to my old habits from when I was seventeen years old. Suddenly, my actions and decisions demanded justification and explanation to those who it wasn’t even owed in the first place. Suddenly, I was surrounded by figures from my childhood who couldn’t even recognize that I had changed and grown on the inside. Suddenly, people’s projections of who they wanted me to be created a monster of doubt inside of me that began to eat up the woman I had become. Suddenly, I had lost my independence. Suddenly, I was trapped in a life that I never ever wanted.
As I began working shortly after my graduation in May of 2020, I experienced the usual day-in-day-out routine that I would venture to say everyone experiences when they work. Thankfully, the rate of the decline in my motivation and drive significantly decreased, and I was able to stabilize myself and just accept my situation for what it was. I remodeled my room, and I had a major attitude change and reality check. I became more productive and made the best of the hand I was dealt, despite outside factors that still continue to hinder my ability to grow back into my best self (hiring freezes, inability to move out on my own, travel restrictions, etc.).
Even now, however, I am dissatisfied. I never expected to lose the fire I had for my life. I never thought that I would experience this null feeling of settling for “good enough.” I never wanted to be down-and-out without my inner voice that had always told me, “Well, look on the bright side!” I never wanted my worst fear to come true — that I would be stuck in a state of indifference for my own life. I long for the days that I called my own shots. I long for the days I’d excitedly bother my friends and family about my latest revelation. I long for the days of incandescently joyful exhaustion that started at 8am and ended at 2am the next day.
This calls to mind a question that has been lurking in the back of my mind for the past few months — “Is that as good as it will ever get?”
I never dreamed of being twenty-two. I never wanted to lose the youthful optimism that I had between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one. Twenty-two has been overtaken by heartbreak, loss, and despair for an unsettling majority of my friends and family. There have been too many breakups, passing of loved ones, and disappointments that have been permanently associated with this age. Twenty-two fucking sucks. Even when I turned sixteen, I knew way back then that just maybe, twenty-one would be as good as it gets.
Contrary to many young women my age, I do not dream of getting married and becoming a mother (despite the fact that I am the “mom friend”). It is clear that I crave my independence. The very thought of being responsible for at least two other human beings truthfully makes my hairs stand on end — really, truly fills me with terror and anxiety.
However, looking back at what made me busy and what actually fulfilled me when I was in college has made me realize that I was born to be of service. My daily life was entirely centered around giving to others my time, energy, and love. As an RA, it was always my job to just be there — whether I was on call or being an ear to listen for my residents and fellow RAs. In all my work with the Society of Women Engineers, it was always with the purpose to support the members and give them a sense that they were not alone. And to be honest — this is a big one — my studies as a mechanical engineering student were always driven by my desire to prove to my professors, friends, and family that their contributions to my education journey were not in vain. Anything I did for myself was entirely driven by my desire to put into action my passion for serving others. Always.
It almost seems ironic that my daily activity that gave me the greatest sense of independence was also the very activity that proved that pure independence is impossible. As humans, we are not independent beings. For someone like me who is (admittedly) self-centered, this is a very hard pill to swallow. On the bright side (there’s that old inner voice in me coming out again!), this means that I might have been wrong when I turned sixteen. I don’t think ages eighteen through twenty-one are as good as life gets. Even in these short six months of being both twenty-two years old and a college graduate, I have already noticed how optimistic I am for the rest of this year. The rest of my twenties. For my thirties.
Now that I am older, my friends have scattered across the country in every time zone, and nothing excites me more than the thought of the next time I will see them. Now that I am older, despite the fact that I have no idea in my mind of what these next few years will bring, I am ready to embrace the ambiguity of the future because I know that with every step along the way, there are new experiences waiting for me to discover. With every step along the way, I will strive to build up my confidence and break the chains that hold me back from my freedom and independence. With every step along the way, there will be an opportunity for me to serve at least one other person in this world.
And that is why I created this blog. If I even inspire just one reader, one person, one soul that is enough for me. I never dreamed of being twenty-two, but baby, this journey on the road back to being a boss-ass-bitch is going to be the freaking dream.
Not Really A Writer 