I’ve always been an old soul in a young person’s body. You know the type.
My 20s weren’t late nights, bars, or last-minute trips. They were books and blogs and babies. Grad school, a wedding, weight loss, a mortgage. Antique stores. Early bedtimes. The occasional “wild night” spent finishing a novel. Basically, the geriatric millennial starter pack.
And sometimes I’d see people my age — 27 — doing the version of life I thought I was supposed to want. Living in cute apartments instead of dealing with a roof leak. Traveling before settling down. Being a little selfish before becoming the responsible one. Meanwhile, Jerry and I got pregnant and bought a house six months after the wedding.
And yes, we chose that. Those were our priorities then, and they still are.
But every now and then I’d wonder: was I missing something?
Should I have been out at bars instead of home with a book?
Partying instead of writing?
Traveling instead of raising a family?
Bouncing between rentals instead of repainting my 1960s living room?
The truth is, I only thought I was wrong. I never actually felt wrong.
We convince ourselves we have to hit certain milestones at certain times. But the only timeline that matters is our own.
In high school, my friends and I weren’t the sneaking-out type. We filmed ridiculous movies and played board games. We had a blast. I wouldn’t trade a minute.
In college, I tried to be someone else. I went away for a semester, tried pledging a sorority, stayed out late, did all the things I thought would make me “fit.” But the whole time, it felt like I was auditioning for a part I didn’t even want. I remember thinking, I’d rather be in bed with a book. Everyone else was having fun. I was performing.
I quit the sorority the day of initiation, packed up over winter break, and transferred home.
I had dreamed of the classic college experience — living it up, “finding myself.” What I actually did was sit alone in my dorm watching Rent and calling my mom in tears every night. Instead of cafeteria bonding, I grabbed the same sandwich daily and ate it alone, crying over turkey and chips. I thought I was supposed to love it.
But I didn’t.
I don’t have wild nightlife stories. But I can tell you all about the absurd music videos we made in high school.
I don’t have a sorority network or a group of college besties. But I spend my evenings with my mom and my baby while Jerry works. We thrift, we watch questionable reality TV, we laugh. My life doesn’t look like the typical “20s highlight reel,” but I have my family. I still have the same friends I’ve had since I was 12. I have a house that feels like mine and books stacked everywhere. It’s not glamorous, but it’s solid.
I don’t daydream about who I’m supposed to be anymore. These days, Friday nights mean my baby, my book, and my bed. Saturdays are family dinners at my parents’ house. After work, I’m not out bar-hopping — I’m at music class, swaying and clapping while my baby grins like the whole room is cheering just for him.
And that’s when it hits me: this is my life — not the expected one, just the right one.
I didn’t miss out. I grew into the life that actually feels like mine.
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