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One evening last week, I spent over two hours reading and scrolling through some beautiful, inspiring, and emotionally raw blog posts.  I was enveloped in these stories and found myself clicking through link after link of blog posts-- you know, kind of like one might when you swear you're only checking one little fact on Wikipedia at 2am.

I decided I'd better close out my browser and looked up from the screen.  Honestly, I forgot where I was for a moment.  I was so lost in my own world that I thought I was at my mom's house.  I even so much as gathered some notes I'd been taking and turned around to throw them in the trashcan behind me, only to realize that I was in our office.  In our apartment.  In Worcester.

My birthday is in less than a month, and I sometimes find myself getting that falling-down-the-stairs feeling when I realize that it's almost my 25th birthday.  And 25 is awfully close to 30.

That's what it feels like-- looking up from a daydream and realizing that you have no idea where you are or what you're doing.  I haven't done anything with my life yet, and I'm falling dangerously close to the age where you're supposed to have it all figured out.  And then I slowly count on my fingers and realize there's no way I'm 24 yet.  I'm not even 23.  I'm 22.

I used to wonder why my parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles had to think for a moment when I would ask them how old they were.  For me, I was six.  And being six was a heck of a lot older and wiser than being five.  How could adults lose track of their age?  Age is so important, right?

Wrong.

I still have so much that I want to do with my life, and since I'm still a few weeks away from my 23rd birthday, I have lots of time to do them.  I want to move home and build the most beautiful house in a field.  I want to craft a career that I love.  Life isn't a race, it's a journey.  And hopefully by the time I do reach my 25th birthday, I'll be in a place where I don't feel like I'm falling down a flight of stairs.


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