25

You’re 16, half sprawled on the living room floor reading a historical fiction. There is a red haired woman on the cover page wearing an elegant corset dress. A dramatic cover; enough to make anyone want to pick it up.

The protagonist is making a pivotal decision. To be or not to be.

You picture your life for a moment. Your own story. An older you.

In your 16 year old mind, you visualize a 20 something year old you and she’s very grown.

Wise beyond words. Brave. This older version of you is very certain. Perfect. A living representation of your dreams.

Except you turned 25 today and your dreams are so much different.

You’re still scared of the dark. You still talk to yourself all the time. Your right leg still shakes rhythmically when you’re tense. You still cry over minor inconvenience. You still laugh with your hands covering your mouth. You still love chocolate cake. And yam still makes you happy.

You’re 25 but now you make decisions. Not good. Not bad. But you make them. And you speak even when you’re scared. And you bake a new thing every weekend. And you really love cats now. And you’re still falling in love with life as headily as you did when you were16.

You’re 25 and you’re still writing. You love it. You really love it. And it loves you too.

And you’ve learned to dance even when there’s no music. And you cackle wildly at your own jokes. And trust. Trust in God. And his love. And his infinite timing.

You’re 25 and you wanted to be a product manager at 22. And you wanted to sell shoes at 23. And at 24 you opened your own website. And now you’re 25 and you have dreams that scare you. And you’re uncertain but you know life was never built on the shores of certainty. So, you embrace life. All of it.

You’re 25 and you’re happier. You’re content. You’re still a dreamer but you know now; you know that you will be fine.