25

What’s a girl to do when she’s standing here?

I’ve had this blog post on my mental list to write for a while...

I thought I had something to say (at least something to process-out-through-writing) about this moment in my existence… But, I worried-what is really worth saying? Aren’t I just another in a long line of people expressing some similar sentiment?

what do I really have to say that’s unique?

would anything about this post be worth the eyes of any visitor stumbling upon it or is it just more personal jibber, jabber?

Some days I hear myself saying, “I’m almost 25… 25! Guys, that’s scary!”

But, then… since I started preparing myself for this months ago, I can now have days where I feel pretty indifferent about it.

But, if I’m honest…I’d still put it off for a little while longer.

So, why?

Is it just some stigma society has imposed upon us?

Some gigantic exaggeration where life somehow looks like… 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27...

I’m sure it’s some of that, but maybe personally, there’s some fear that surfaces, unique for each of us, when we face a milestone.

We look right, left, backwards and forwards. 

Looking at where we are in life and judging it, based on some idea of where we “should” be. And our own idea of where we hoped we’d be.

Maybe what’s really scary is the fear, not of were I am, but the fear of still being here next year. The fear of never “making it”, never overcoming this, achieving that thing – before it’s “too late”. Even worse, the wondering of what, if anything, I could do differently.

Maybe to combat those fears, we say things like, “you’re never too old” and we joke about being “over the hill” when we’re still in our prime and we know it.

Recently, I thought again of the struggle, in this culture, to live one-day at a time. Even though life comes in minutes; hours; days-we quickly lump those into weeks; months; years and each day in its individuality can be lost.

But, nevertheless, life is lived out in days. One. at. a. time.

If we could just remember that, and live like that reality is reality,

I feel like we’d be more motivated and happier.

Somehow I know that life will never look like “what I imagine” – whether at 25, 30, 50 or 75...

Intrinsically, I think we know it’s not about the number of years, but the quality of life. A life well-lived and not wasted.

I think that’s why, when we lose hope in quality, we clamor for quantity.

We settle for more and more of the sh***y stuff. Trying to make up for what really matters. But any crazy experience, novelty or the chase of eternal youth don’t make up for the real connection and purpose we were born craving.

So, I don’t yet have the education, the job, the guy… --(it could go on and on if I let it)--most of the things I figured were reasonable to have by this age.

If, every year is a gift than every day is a choice of what perspective I am going to look through. Every day spent in fear and regret is just one more lost. So, I can’t be afraid to hope for fear of disappointment.

At any age, I think we all have more in common than we think. We’re all accepting that we don’t have it all figured out, life looks a lot different than we expected and we must find joy in the journey and hope beyond this skin.

The same day I was writing this, I happened on a post from someone 25 years further in his journey. He said,  

"Fifty came faster than I expected. So will sixty and seventy, if the Lord wills. So will the finish line. So will Glory. And each will feel different than I thought it would. My expectations, and certainly my self-image, are not what’s important.

What’s important, what this whole race is about, is obtaining the Prize (Philippians 3:14). And I want to keep running that I may obtain it (1 Corinthians 9:24)."

Ah, to keep that perspective...
I think I picked a good year to focus on being brave.

Here’s to 25…