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When did I become this old?

I still remember the thoughts that would run through my mind in the dorkiest of my years. I’d look at my frizzy hair, “baby fat,” glasses and serious personality and wonder – when would I be like the flawless 20-somethings I’d see all around me? When would I learn how to tame my hair and ease my conversations into elegant laughter? When would I be looked upon in admiration and with respect, instead of as some silly little kid?

And now I guess I’m technically here, and it’s hardly as glamorous as I’d imagined. And I’m completely still that dorky kid, except now I care much LESS about my frizzy hair and glasses and what anyone might think of either. Not how I thought it would be.

With every new engagement and pregnancy that surrounds me, I become increasingly confused and terrified. I am not ready to be this grown up person. For years, I couldn’t wait to be this older version of myself. But it seems as though a switch was flipped when I entered my 20s. SLOW DOWN.

I’m not done doing me. I’m still feeling selfish. I still want to travel, and meet new people, and find my way in life. And I know no one is asking me to give all that up. In fact, I’d be a very rich lady had I even a dime for how often people try to convince me how young I still am. The thing is, they’re just looking at the physical number. 24. In reality, internally, I’m younger even than that.

That gap is an issue. I am still confused, and lost, and often irresponsible. Yet the clock keeps ticking, and it’s terrifying.

The pressure is on.

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