Young And Old

I’m 33.

When I was 23 I thought for sure I would have everything figured out by now.

How adorably naive of me.

I am 33.

I have very little figured out. Making countless mistakes has afforded me a small portion of experience and wisdom, but overall I recognize now that I am such an infant in this world. I thought I was so grown at 25, but as I near 35 I recognize I am young and foolish and full of folly.

I am 33.

I thought I would understand and have mastered love, faith, family, and friendship by now.

Put a big “NO” next to each of those bullet points. I can not check them off. I’ve not mastered any of them, even if I do feel slightly more aware than I did at 23.

I am 33.

I realized when my mother died that life is not actually short. It is long. Every day is long. And within its length lies infinite possibilities. I am awaking to a new adventure every day, even if the adventure involves seemingly mundane tasks. Life is long. I feel no need to rush. I have learned at least that much: I enjoy taking my time.

I am 33.

I feel okay right now. For possibly the first time in my life I do not feel frantic or worried. I am comfortable, I am content, I am trusting the process and the journey, I am enjoying the flow.

I am 33.

I am young and I am old. I am who, what, when, where, why, and how I am. And today it is enough.

I am 33.

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