Twenty was never going to be a good year. I never liked the idea of being twenty. You’re officially not a kid anymore but you can’t even drink to prolong the delusion. Twenty just sucked a lot more than I thought it would.
Twenty feels like being an adult, like shaped thighs and five more pounds and having to buy longer shorts.
It felt like early mornings and clicking lockers, like coworkers and nametags and paychecks.
It felt like having doors swing shut, like boxes in the elevator, like no more sparkle.
It felt like hiding, like shame, like a primal need so fierce it consumes everything else.
It felt like the bottom of a well, like looking up at the outside, wanting to scream but not wanting to be seen.
It felt like scrubbing out the crevices between my organs, like staring in the mirror and daring myself to cry.
It felt like Friday mornings and 90 miles there and back, sweet coffee and cashmere sweaters and honey in your hair, bright 30 second ads interrupting a grey week.
It feels like doubting the stones I walk on, avoiding eye contact because they will somehow know that I don’t belong.
It feels like guilt, it feels like pride, it feels like guilt for being proud.
It feels like blue in my hair and caffeine in my veins, like knowing you have no choice in the best way.
It feels like locking the door behind you and balancing everything.
It feels like lying. It feels too honest.
It feels like life is slipping away.
It feels like wild fear.
It feels like filled in spaces and squared off edges.
It feels like money in the bank and budgets and throwing my own parties.
It feels not good. But important. Can a year feel important? This one does.