Our 20s are marked by restlessness. We reject the norms prescribed to us by a society that’s stagnant and self-interested. We revel in randomness manufactured by the hands of those we hope to impress. We refuse to accept that this is all there is.
Our expectations are tinged with hopeless idealism. We scoff at people who have settled, like those who moved back to their hometown or got engaged to their college sweetheart. We take pride in our freedom and independence while pitying our loneliness and indecision.
We’re a generation of flakes and dreamers. Just knowing that we can go anywhere and do anything gives us permission to ignore all that doesn’t fit neatly into this idea of who we are. And at times, we feel immortal. That life is a never-ending weekend of cheap beer and fish tacos and thrift stores and dance parties.
But deep down we’re terrified that we’ll wake up to find the world has moved on without us. That what we had in mind was just a misguided vision. That maybe there isn’t anyone out there who understands us the way we need to be understood. Or loves us the way we need to be loved. Or needs us the way we need to be needed.
Our 20s are exciting and confusing and wonderful and frustrating – all at the same time.
There are moments when I feel like it’s too much. That the process is too difficult. That figuring it out is too heartbreaking. And I’m not sure I’m strong enough to carry all of this weight.
Sometimes I wish I could fast forward ten years into the future, just to see how it all turns out. I wish there was a formula I could follow to get the life I think I want. I wish someone would take me by the shoulders and tell me everything will be okay.
But sometimes when I’m walking home by myself on a dimly lit street, I’m happy for no reason at all. Because I’ve never felt so alive with the possibility that anything could happen.