25
So I’m 25 now. A quarter century, which supposedly means I’m supposed to have my shit together at this point—be wise, mature, grounded, the kind of guy who knows where he’s going. And I’m sitting here thinking about all that and realizing I’m completely full of it. Nothing’s changed. I’m still the same mess I was at 24, just older and slightly more aware of how little I know.
There’s this thing that happens around 25 where you’re supposed to feel some kind of shift. Like you’ve crossed a threshold into real adulthood. People tell you you’re not a kid anymore, and technically they’re right, but it doesn’t feel like anything. You wake up the same. Your problems are the same problems. Your desires are the same. You still want things you probably shouldn’t want, still make stupid decisions, still get drunk with friends and forget half of what you said.
But I’m not complaining. There’s something kind of great about not pretending anymore—about just accepting that being alive is chaotic and messy and that turning another year older doesn’t fix any of that. It just means you’ve been around long enough to see some patterns repeat, to recognize when you’re making the same mistakes again, to know that knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.
So I drank some champagne. Felt the stupid warmth of people telling you happy birthday, which never stops being a weird thing even when you’re not 21 anymore. And I didn’t suddenly feel wiser or more certain. Mostly I just felt glad to still be here, still hungry, still interested in what comes next—even knowing full well that next year I’ll probably be just as lost as I am now.
Quarter century down. At least a quarter more to figure it out.