Yeh, here I am again. With my annual birthday post, which is usually nothing special but always gets tons of reads each time. So I feel almost obliged to write something nice for you this year … However, I’m just going to ramble about the past year and how I feel now that I’m turning a satisfying alliterating number.
Every year I think that the next number will feel extra special. I thought so at sixteen, at eighteen, at twenty-one. All numbers that stand for a big step, but they’ve never really felt like that for me. Because after all, your age has nothing to do with what’s going on in your life and what steps you take. I had my first boyfriend at age fifteen, went to uni at age seventeen and started working aged twenty. And now I’m moving out of the house at age twenty-two. It seems like I’m hopskotching, always skipping the so called ‘big’ numbers.
And that, but not only that, makes me feel like this year is going to be extra special. Moving out of the house and living with Rob is a big thing. But I’ve also got other big things on my plate. Plans, goals. Things that I used to just dream about, I now wrote down on my 2020 to-do list. “It’s going to be my year,” I thought a couple of nights ago when laying awake in bed, restless of excitement. But it doesn’t have to be my year. Every year is another one, with different failures and different achievements. Every year is my year. But it doesn’t hurt to manifest that this one will be extra mine.