Florals & Musings

A little over ten years ago, I spent the evening of my 23rd birthday alone and crying. I was convinced that I was wasting away my twenties, and of course, I had to do everything I ever wanted to do before the ominous 30th birthday because then I would be olddddd. 

Of course, I was being silly. There’s no point in life where you have to give up living your life and achieving your dreams. And honestly, even if there was some cutoff age, it certainly isn’t in your 30s. 

But a few weeks ago, I felt melancholy about the idea that I had wasted my twenties. I love the path I am on now, but I feel like I should be further along in my writing career. 

And yes, I could be. But I spent most of my twenties in school. It took me longer to finish community college because I was going part-time, and to be completely honest, I had a rough transition to college at 19/20. I struggled with taking too many classes and needing more rest time. I graduated CC at 24 and went right to university. I received my bachelor’s at 26 and then started my master’s degree at 29; I finished it in May. In between my B.S. and M.A. I was working full-time and commuting at least an hour each way. 

Of course, I had no extra energy to write. I barely had enough energy to keep my apartment clean. 

I think we sometimes romanticize our youth to the point where it becomes detrimental to ourselves. We apply the wisdom we gained over the years to ourselves then, but it’s the experience we gained during that time that brought us to where we are now. 

I did enough in my twenties. I graduated college, fell in love, got married, published several essays, went abroad for the first time, and learned much about myself and the career I wanted. 

I wouldn’t be able to handle critique of my work without the Writing Creative Nonfiction class I took during undergrad. During that class, I had essays workshopped by my entire class and quickly got comfortable discussing the good and the not-so-good in each essay/story. I didn’t take that class until I was 24 years old. 

Submitting multiple essays to Grub Street, Towson University’s literary magazine, and getting all of them rejected taught me that rejection is part of the process and to keep going. I didn’t submit anything until I was in my mid-twenties.

I wouldn’t know how to pace a story without taking a fiction writing workshop during undergrad and learning actual techniques to help the story along. 

All those experiences, and many more, molded me into the writer I am today at 33. So, instead of wishing I had my 33-year-old wisdom and knowledge at 23, I’m happy that my experiences led me here. Now, I’m looking forward to the experiences that will lead me to become the writer I will be at 43, 53, 63, 73, 83, and 93. 

It’s not over until it’s over.