I Don’t Know About You, But I Don’t Know How To Feel At 22

There is something frightening about getting older. I’m not talking about the crow’s feet that are already starting to form or the smile lines I have had since I was a teen (although my 0.3ml of lip filler would tell you that I am a little scared). I mean the feeling that I have to sit with. My memories. My girlhood is beginning to fade into womanhood – yet I don’t know which box I fit into.

This is not just anxiety, it is existential dread tangled with joy. I am happy to start the next stage of my life. But I am so afraid. I turn 23 next week and cannot wait to see what the year brings; however, 22 was full of uncertainty. Of feeling like I am behind, despite being so young still.

When I scroll through all the content that my Instagram bombards me with, I am in terrible astonishment of what my peers are up to. Everyone is experiencing such wonderful moments. While they are getting engaged and flourishing, I am still mousy and snapping photos of dazzling lattes that I ordered at brunch with my dad.

Sometimes I am curious if they feel it too – the prying and pressure to make this all mean something. If they ever panic at 11pm because their fridge is empty and they still haven’t figured out taxes (despite being a math teacher). If they, too, hold their breath and question their milestones just because someone else got there first. I can’t help but wonder whether I am falling behind or taking a different route.

This year was the year I learned to exist in the gray. 22 forced me to sit in many moments of not knowing. I let myself cry during my prep periods as a first year teacher and then laughed so hard that I choked on iced coffee. I didn’t develop into a better version of myself, but I did develop a more honest approach to life. More tender. More interested in what it means to grow without needing it to look good on camera.

I still tried to glamorize everything, of course. I still decorated the little corners of my life: dirty chais and Pinterest moodboards and blurry photos of the sunset I took at Target with my mom. But underneath the filters, I let the real stuff in. The mess I’ve always tried to keep covered up. The fear concealed with a smile. The ache planted in my chest of just wanting to belong somewhere. And the small, sweet victories: starting a pilates class. Saying no with less guilt. Starting over and giving myself credit when due.

So no, I don’t know how to feel at 22. But maybe I’m also not supposed to.

Maybe that is what makes this age so hauntingly beautiful: it is the one where you begin to establish yourself, even when you are still unsure of where to begin.