Dear 25-Year-Old Me

Dear 25 year old me,


In view of your birthday approaching, I suppose it’s time to write you a letter of all the things I haven’t managed to say. Maybe it’s the pent-up frustration with work or the helplessness you feel when you’re trying to sleep at night that’s been getting in the way of talking to you, but I digress. Maybe it’s just denial.

With your mid-quarter life crisis looming on the horizon, you’ll realize that being an adult isn’t all it’s made out to be. I’m still waiting for the day when I will magically be imbued with the knowledge of how to do my taxes and the types of insurance I should get for myself. In the meantime, I spend my days struggling not to fall into a coma the moment I set foot in the rented apartment that I’m sad about not being able to own. At this moment, I’m still trying so hard to understand what changed, I know I’m still me but everything is just – somehow different.

Am I sad? Am I happy? I have a ‘glamourous’ job, a loving boyfriend and I’m living the life I could’ve only dreamed off a decade ago in my nerdy ponytail, braces and ew-makeup phase. My family is proud of me and I get to do what I love. Of course, nothing is all rainbows and unicorn farts but hey, at least I have a job, right? Right?

So, what’s wrong? Why do I feel so lost? I thought I’d have it all figured out by now, be ready for everything and financially stable. To be brutally honest, I’m not even close. To make the horror worse, I don’t know how I feel about waking up every single day for the rest of my life doing what I do now. The late nights do get to you eventually as does the stress of working and paying bills and putting food on the table. I doubt I can even buy my own place in ten years, much less by the time I’m 30. How does everyone do this? How will I?

You spend days slogging away at work (and sometimes nights too), constantly worrying about things you can and can’t afford. You really want to be that perfect daughter that Mulan sings about in her epic Disney fairy tale (which she really is though, she’s filial and cleans up well, the whole shebang) but really, how close are you to that? You always thought you’d be a lot prettier by now (like, come on, how come you still look like a damn potato dumpling hybrid when everyone else has bloomed?) and spend weekends at the hippest places with your cool friends (but guys if you’re reading this, you’re still cool. We just don’t hang out much). Instead you spend your days trying not to look like a rat set up shop in your hair and make feeble attempts at getting not so crinkled laundry to wear to work. Weekends are spent aggressively denying the fact that Monday is one more fucking hour closer with every minute you’re scrolling through Instagram on your bed while still in pyjamas. Do you even eat your vegetables?

Nonetheless, I suppose you’ve done a somewhat ok job at staying alive. Your bills are up-to-date no matter your financial situation, you have no debts, you eat enough and learn enough. You keep going. Like you’ve always done. Just one step at a time and maybe one day you’ll make it. I hope you and I can look back one day and laugh at this letter and all the silly shit we’ve done. When that happens, I hope the past and present collide in a future that’s more than just bright. It better fucking glow.


P.S. Stop eating all the cheese. You’re never going to fit into any of your pants ever again at this rate!





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