draft #7: it's about that time...

and oh, what a funny thing it is.

It’s happening again.

Honestly, it happens every year.

That thing some of us look forward to, others quietly dread, but none of us can outrun.

A birthday.
My birthday.

And somehow, just like that, I turn 25 today…for the fourth time.

It’s strange, getting older. Watching the number change on the cake even though you don’t feel all that different.

Each new number feels foreign. A little unfamiliar. A little unwelcome. And if I’m being honest… a little scary.

When did getting older start to feel like that?

I remember a time when age was exciting. It meant possibility. It meant access.
It meant finally stepping into a world you’d been waiting to join.

Sixteen meant driving.
Eighteen meant freedom.
Twenty-one meant you could finally drink… for the first time…

Back then, the path felt predictable. We all moved through the same checkpoints, the same rites of passage, the same rhythm. There was comfort in the structure.

But then, one day… it disappears.

One moment you’re lined up neatly, like that perfect triangle on a pool table, every ball in its place, held together, moving in unison.

Then life breaks it open, and suddenly everyone scatters in different directions.

Friends move.
Relationships shift.
Careers unfold at wildly different speeds.

And suddenly, there’s no single path anymore. No shared timeline. No collective “next step.” Just a thousand divergent directions and the pressure to somehow choose the right one.

And maybe that’s why getting older feels so unsettling. Because once the blueprint disappears, we have no choice but to look at time itself for direction.

We let the clock become the ruler.
We let age become the metric.
We let milestones turn into proof that we’re “on track.”

“Career by 25.”
“Married by 27.”
“Kids by 30.”

It’s astonishing how quickly possibility can turn into pressure.

But the more I sit with that feeling, the more I realize the pressure isn’t actually about age.

Maybe it’s not a fear of getting older at all.
Maybe it’s a fear of getting it wrong.

A fear of choosing the wrong door.
A fear of being left behind.
A fear of not measuring up to the version of ourselves we thought we’d be by now.

And I don’t think that fear is unique to me.

I think most of us, in one way or another, are afraid of the space between the lives we imagined and the lives we’re actually living.

But here’s what I’m also realizing: it isn’t time that’s judging us.
It isn’t time keeping score.
It isn’t time comparing our life to anyone else’s.

That’s all us.

We’re the ones deciding what each age is supposed to mean.
We’re the ones turning birthdays into benchmarks.
We’re the ones assuming there’s a pace we’re supposed to match.

Truth is, it’s not the age itself that matters, but rather the narrative we attach to it.

The story of whether we’re ahead or behind.
Winning or losing.
Doing enough or somehow falling short.

So as I step into 29, I’m trying to loosen my grip on all of that. To let go of the idea that I’m late, or off-track, or missing something everyone else has already figured out.

This year doesn’t need to prove anything.
It doesn’t need to match a timeline I outgrew.
It doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s version of “right.”

It just needs to be lived.

Lived with intention.
Lived with risk.
Lived with the courage to actually move toward the life I want.

Because getting older isn’t about running out of time.
It’s about finally realizing it’s yours to use on purpose.