Today my son and I were watching an old sitcom and I looked up the date it originally aired. I was 22 – the same age as my son on the couch beside me. Weird.
In the moment, I felt like me being 22 could have been yesterday. I thought – I feel 22. But is that true?
I reflected back on early 20s. Who was that girl? I don’t recognize her and I certainly don’t feel like her.
I was scared and insecure – yet tried to show confidence and bravado. I desperately wanted to be loved and accepted – but had no idea that needed to come from within. I wanted to know everything was going to turn out okay, so I pretended – I didn’t have a clue.
I identified only in relation to those around me. I fit in by being a glimpse of me – but also trying to morph into whatever I thought others wanted me to be. I liked to be out because being in felt lonely.
Would I want to be 22 again? No. Not for a minute. But I’m grateful for all those feelings – for all that discomfort – because it’s helped me be where I am today at 50. And 50, so far, feels pretty good.