Getting older, ya know?
hovering awkwardly between the exhilarating chaos of early twenties and the sober reality of adulthood.
I.
Back when i was in primary school (around seven or eight), i had the dreadful assignment of writing about what i wanted to be when i grew up. After hours of procrastination and deliberation, i wrote down the following: a pilot (because that's what i found to be cool at the time), a doctor (because that's what my parents wanted to hear), and a gymnast (because that's what i was doing at the time).
Of course, none of those careers came to fruition for various reasons: as a pilot, because I forgot about it and have a fear of heights. A doctor, because i get queasy around blood, and i didn't enjoy biology much in high school. A gymnast, because my father thought it's better to "invest" that money into my brothers' karate career just for him to stop going after a few lessons, so there is that.
Ten years later, at seventeen, I had just gotten my BAC results. For those of you around the world, Bac or Baccalaureate is the exam we have to pass during our final year of high school to transition into University, and yes, it was an awful, stress-inducing week of exams. Anyway, at the time, I had the dreadful task of choosing my major, with my father hovering around my chair as he told me how much higher and better every child of his friends marks were to mine. I chose Business and management and went on to have the worst three depressive years of my life.
Sometimes during those episodes, i used to wonder what would have become of me if i had chosen a different path, would i have been happy with the decision i made? And what would it mean to dream -something so warm with the nostalgic taste of childhood-, to want something and to actively persue it.
Around my third year at uni, i came to the conclusion that it doesn't matter either way, i don't have a dream, i made my choice and it's about time i made my peace with it.
II.
I turn twenty-seven today. 27 on the 27th. I'm really not that big on birthdays for various reasons but mainly because my birthday used to fall always during exams season. Stressing about school is never a great party guest. And then i just had to spend mine last year at a clinic waiting to get echography scan of my thyroid. It was an unusually hot day, i felt sticky and overall was in a bad mood. Then i got the most underwhelming pizza i had ever the displeasure to have in my life, but, hey, at least i didn't cry. That's all to say, i actually dread birthdays. Birthdays are supposed to be joyous occasions, a happy celebration with loved ones, but what happens when the party feels more like a reminder of the passage of time rather than a celebration of life?
As the years pass and the excitement of birthdays has diminished, partly because i have grown to measure my life in goals and numbers and partly because birthdays have managed to be both underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time, every anticipation of my birthday has turned into a feeling of emptiness and melancholy as I reflect on the goals I haven't achieved and the dreams I haven't pursued.
Each passing year seemed to bring with it a sense of pressure to have it all figured out, to be at a certain place in life that society deems acceptable, to have certain boxes already ticked off of your ever-growing imaginary mandatory list, but life doesn't always follow a linear nor a predictable path.
However, as i have grown older, i have come to realize that birthdays don't have to be about meeting certain expectations; they can be an opportunity for reflection, whether it's personal growth, meaningful relationships, or simply making it through another year. So, as the candles flicker atop the cake, I choose to blow them out with gratitude in my heart, knowing that each birthday is a gift in itself, regardless of the number.
Cheers to surviving another year and inching ever closer to the grand milestone of 30. Life is grand, isn’t it?
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Until next time,
f <3