I’m 22 — and that’s okay.
This story has been in the back of my mind for weeks. I haven’t made any notes, or even opened this site to draft. I don’t understand what fears stop people from doing the things that they love. Is it something about vulnerability? Shout out Brene Brown.
Regardless, here I am. I’m 22 and I don’t understand why I’m not 35 already, or 75. I don’t understand why I haven’t “discovered my passion”, “started my dream job”, or “met the one”. It’s laughable. Logic does tell me that at this age of 22 I should be lost and flailing. It’s to be expected. But I live with this nagging perfectionist who constantly builds stories to discredit any work I’ve done or progress I’ve made.
She forgets the panic I used to feel if I was alone for more than an hour, or the terror of a loved one not answering my call. She’s quick to point out the way my heart races when I’m around my peers, but forgets the nights I stayed home to avoid them. She will call me vain before congratulating me on eating three square meals each day.
Truth be told, I have grown by leaps and bounds over the last year. Just, not necessarily in ways measurable by net worth or how I appear on Instagram. Which, of course, is where she demands I focus.
Ya know what?
Fuck her.
Over the last year, I have: left a toxic relationship, left a toxic job, left a toxic living situation. I finally began treatment for PTSD. I made the moves to get myself enrolled for my first semester of college. I have started, and am currently, practicing new and healthier boundaries with both myself and others.
The past year has been marked by fear, pain, and so much uncomfortability. But it has also seen excitement, faith, and pure joy.
I can look at some of my peers and envy their careers, their new home purchases, or their engagements. I can scroll Instagram and loathe my legs for not being an inch longer. I can sort through writers on Medium and ask myself why I haven’t committed to a blog. It is somehow easier to listen the stories of “not enough” than it is to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, I am exactly where I should be.
I’m 22, and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
I’m 22, and I haven’t committed to a five-day gym regimen.
I’m 22, and I don’t know whether I want marriage and a family.
I’m 22, and I’m unsure if I’ve found my voice.
I’m 22, and I’m still learning to love myself.
I’m 22.
And that’s okay.
