The morning of my twenty-seventh birthday I opened my eyes and felt… different.

Not a kind of different that you could see in the mirror, an intangible kind of different. You know how on some birthdays you wake up and you don’t feel any different from the past day at all? It wasn’t one of those birthdays.

I’ve always thought that having the privilege of aging is a gift. I’m not one to shy away from grey hairs or laugh lines, especially knowing that some of my friends won’t have the opportunity to grow old. Losing friends definitely changes your perspective on getting older. I read a book recently called I Hope This Finds You Well by Kate Baer and there was one poem that really stuck out to me.

“how the dead must cringe at our resistance to look as if we’ve lived”

Getting nearer to 30, I’ve started seeing targeted ads for countless undereye creams and serums. But I’m not interested in reducing the signs of aging. I’m thankful for the wisdom that only comes with time showing on my face juuuust a little bit.

I've been reflecting on my early 20's, thinking about the woman I was then and how things have changed over the years.

And boy, they have changed! I feel like I’ve lived about five different lives since I turned 18. Thinking about all those versions of myself, I began dreaming about taking 20 year old me out for a coffee. What would we talk about? Her with her iced caramel macchiato in hand, and me with my matcha latte. I would love to hear about her classes and the professors that she loved and the ones she couldn’t stand, her job and how much fun it was while also being the most toxic working environment (and I’d tell her about how she had to go to therapy for that after leaving), her roster of (in)significant others and where they were ranking. And then I began thinking about what kind of advice I would give her if I could tell her anything.

I'd start by telling her to take less shit. I’d help her learn how to stand up for herself, especially at work. I’d tell her that work shouldn’t run your life, and that if you feel owned by your job and your boss… it’s time to get yourself out of there.

I'd tell her that she doesn't have to just let life happen to her, that she is in the driver's seat if she wants to be. Here’s a good metaphor: when I was 20, I had my foot on the gas but couldn’t find the steering wheel. I let life happen to me, instead of creating opportunities for myself and really going after what I wanted. (However to be fair, I didn’t really know what I wanted.)

I'd tell her that it's okay to fuck up – and it's maybe even expected? When I got fired from my job as an RA, I felt like the entire world was crashing down around me. It felt like an immense failure to get fired. My mental health tanked, and I had my first real experience with depression. Thankfully, I had incredible support from my family and friends, and was able to get through it.

I'd tell her that mom is usually right: about that boyfriend, about that job, about bringing a jacket. I’d tell her not to stifle herself for another person, that $10 an hour isn’t worth your mental health, and that even if you don’t wear the jacket, it’s nice to know it’s there if you need it.

And I'd tell her that even though it seems like the days will last forever, that the years go by so fast. I'd tell her soak up every minute of her friends' presence because one day they'll all be scattered across the globe chasing their own dreams and it won't be as easy to stay in touch as it was when they lived next door. (but thank god for FaceTime!!) But most of all, I'd tell her that she'll be okay. That things get better in some ways and worse in others, but that she can handle all of it – not by herself, but with her people supporting and loving her. I'd remind her that she's never alone.