Almost a month ago I reluctantly entered the final year of my twenties.
Instead of welcoming the times ahead, I regressed to infantile ignorance and drowned my despair in forgotten sins. I grabbed the bottle and merely erased my older self in search of careless days that drifted away long ago.
Turning 29 feels like attempting to give birth to a 60 kg baby. I am birthing myself all over through the womb of my memories. Attempting to assimilate all significant events into a new form.
But it’s so fucking hard. I lie awake at night questioning all the choices I make. Each choice puts me on a different path. How will I ever know what’s the right move and what I lose by choosing one over the other?
All I want is to dance, sing, paint, and create. But instead I dig a deeper, darker hole of dissatisfaction.
What is missing in my life? Why does it not feel like a worthy life for a twenty-nine year old woman?
Is it because I don’t own a home? Or because I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in about ten years? Or maybe it’s because I realized I might prefer to create art over following one of my previous career paths?
I even want to do modelling. And god only knows how beyond old I am for that. I am practically a fossil. And this body...well it sure didn’t slim down on the other side of twenty-five.
In spite of all the self-judgment accompanying twenty-nine, a newfound appreciation for me in my many forms arose.
I am me in my multitude of forms and no number, whether it’s on the scale or on candles digged into a cake will change that. And thank the universe I got another year left to manifest those many me’s before the big three-o. Maybe I’ve grown those luminous rainbow wings and painted my existence with a more suitable palette by the next transition?
