Last month I turned 30. By some standards, I’m officially old. By others, I still don’t know what old is yet. Either way, I feel the passing of time speeding up on me, and it’s made me do a lot of reflecting.
Lately, I’ve thought a lot about 15-year-old me. She had a lot of expectations for life. If I went back in time to tell her how it’s turned out she’d probably call me a liar. A married stay-at-home mom with three kids? Not a chance. You found people who don’t think you’re crazy for pursuing a career as a writer? Impossible.
15-year-old me carried a lot of doubt, but also a lot of determination. I may not be where I expected, but I’m happy with where I ended up. I think 15-year-old me would be happy too.
I’ve also thought a lot about 45-year-old me in the future. What will she think of 15-year-old me? Or 30-year-old me? I hope when I’m there I can look back on my past and say I made the most of the opportunities in my life. No matter what success or failure I endure, I want to say I tried my best and learned from whatever mistakes I made.
The past is behind me. The future awaits ahead of me. It’s up to me to keep moving forward.
Story Veins 