Today I turn twenty-seven and, honestly, I can’t help feeling I should have some ducks in my row by now.
I’m aware twenty-seven is young. I’ve heard every single way of someone telling me I’m still young. But it actually annoys the heck out of me. Can you maybe not invalidate my fears by patronisingly telling me I’m too young to worry? You don’t have to have everything sorted in your twenties is uttered so often. Sure, you don’t, but it’s always people who do have at least some ducks in their row who give out that advice. I know I had a career and salary by twenty-two, but you really don’t have to!
Now, I’m fully aware people have achieved amazing things really late in life. There truly is no cap on dreams. Strive for your goals if you’re nine or ninety-nine. You do you. So I know I don’t need to have all my ducks lined up by thirty—where’s the fun in achieving everything you want that young?
I would just like one duck!
Panic is my constant setting at the moment. Twenty-seven, I can’t help feeling, is not young enough to be in the position I’m in with life. Call it being impacted by societal expectations and the media, whatever. Yet, I’d just like to be on a path I’m semi-satisfied with. To be able to look at my life and say yeah, I’ve done something, this hasn’t been a waste of time. I’ve been incredibly privileged in many respects. I’ve never had money, but I’ve had a supportive family and a beautiful found family too. I’ll never regret any decision I’ve made because it brought me to the friends I have now (and they are the bee’s knees of friends!). But in a world so dominated by social media, where none of us can help comparing ourselves to our mates, it’s hard not to feel a little…underwhelmed by the passing of another year.
As always, I’m not saying any of this to garner sympathy, or for anyone to say don’t worry, it’ll happen because…don’t. I’d just like people to stop telling others they’re too young to worry. Stop invalidating all their panic with an eye-roll.
You might be older than me and currently eye-rolling as you read this, but I feel like I’m being strangled on a daily basis. Don’t invalidate that.
I’m at the stage where I don’t even want to celebrate my birthday. The idea of it makes me feel sick. I’m dreading anyone mentioning it to the point where I’ve even taken my date of birth off Facebook in the hope people will forget and not post a long list of congratulations, you’re still alive messages onto my feed. (Also sitting here a little bitter by the fact everyone did actually forget…my head’s a confusing place.)
So, here’s the point where I end on a hopeful note… I’m bored shitless by life at the moment, and therefore I’ve decided to make twenty-seven the year of change. Big, new, abso-bloody-lutely terrifying change. I’m sick of rejection, and being told I can’t, and I’m beyond sick of this right-wing town. If I have to speak to another person who voted for Farage, I swear to God… Whilst 100% aware of how much of a risk I’m taking, with all the warnings ringing in my ears, I’m moving to Edinburgh in October with hardly any money and no (as of right now) job. Just me, a rucksack, and a box of houseplants.
Am I crazy?
(Yes, there will definitely be ‘me and my houseplants in Edinburgh’ blog posts. Obvs.)
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