your twenties are weird, but twenty-five f*cking sucks

and other generalisations

I want to start this by saying two things-

1. I may have come across a little strong with the title, it’s not actually all that bad.

2. I am 25. So am I bias? Absolutely. Am I the expert here? Highly unlikely.

Lately conversations with many of my friends has revolved around this strange semi colon of an age that we find ourselves at; 25. When someone asks me how old I am, I almost answer in question, “25?” as though I don’t quite believe or understand it myself. It feels like a made up age, like trying to force on a shoe that’s been left out in the weather and become misshapen; like the lines left on a page after a drawing has been erased; like eerie silence at the end of a party when there is no one left but some guy asleep on the couch and empty bottles as far as the eye can see.

Every year we celebrate another milestone, the year that was, and of course, the promise of the year ahead- except this year, happy birthdays were met with fear and a sense of dread.

This age, halfway between 20 and 30, feels neither here nor there. On one hand you are still young enough to carry the fears of your 20 year old counterpart- not enough money, stability, sense of status. But for the most part you still feel young, energetic and maybe a little naive, like you don’t quite have the answers yet and like maybe that is okay (?). But unlike 24, now you have the impending doom of 30 on the other side- career, marriage or at the very least a partner, a home and god forbid, children (do you want them? And if you do, can you afford them?); so yes, 25 is a big question mark, and sentence stopped midway.

Looking back on younger years, if I am honest, I don’t really remember much of 20- I muddled my brain with far too many substances, late nights and alcohol. A bit of a waste really, but I wrote some good poetry. 21, I thought I had it all figured out, but in reality I was a mess. I was a good person, just making bad decisions; I hurt myself and the people around me, loved and hated in equal measures, I think I was quite confusing to be around. 22 I had fun, I started to develop my sense of self, my personality seemed to become tangible, solid, but I had no balance and absolutely no money, and I let men walk all over me. 23 was much like 22 but god did I start to take myself way too seriously, I tried to be someone I wasn’t and I got bored of it very quickly. At 24 I seemed to find my rhythm; friends, family, money, even a stable relationship- dare I say I was happy, even content? Like the world was starting to make sense. All of these years had their ups and downs, but none of it felt overly consequential.

But then 25 came along, and the moment I woke up I knew the fun was over. It didn’t feel like a birthday, it felt like a funeral- the mourning of everything I thought I knew.

Now a third of the way into 25, I can safely say it feels like limbo. You are still young enough to make make mistakes, to be called a baby by your superiors, but not young enough to get away with those mistakes- they don’t chuckle at you fondly, or even patronisingly when you mess up now, they expect you to fix it, to have known better. Your job starts to get more serious, the hours longer and the sense of responsibility heavier. But the authority you are expected to wield feels fake and sticks out like a sore thumb to those you manage that are a mere two years your junior; yet you’re not quite ready to sit at the adult table with Rob in finance with his 2.4 million dollar home down in Portsea, or Kathryn with her wedding in June and Jen with the school pickup every Friday and divorce looming on the horizon. And you are learning and growing, and the expectations to save and get ahead, be somewhat stable, are high, but the pay is still shit- after all, you are only 25. And if you were still living at home with your parents it wouldn’t be that strange, but having your own apartment also makes sense now given it’s probably time to make space for a partner. And we are told it is time to take love seriously, to grow roots- and I see my friends spiralling because they are so afraid that if they end this year alone, that if this one isn’t the one, then time has run out, there are no more fish in the sea, no more time on the clock.

And 30 feels so real- then, I will take what I know that I want, that I have worked so hard to figure out, and by 30 I will have it. Well, I will, provided I don’t fuck up the next five years.

But when I fuck up, I still cry- could I do that if I was 30? I still want to call my parents and ask for their love, their help, even though I have lived out of home for seven years now. I still get scared sometimes and on occasion want someone to look after me, but by now I should have my own back all of the time right? I have bills to pay, and I have for years, but now they seem so much more important. A low savings account no longer feels funny and like we can laugh it off over $9 beers. What was small, now seems so much bigger. Sometimes I want to scream, ‘slow down! stop! I want to get off!’

25: you are both too young and not young enough. How strangely universal the confusion around this age is- the wild disparity and discrepancy between one 25 year old to the next.

25 doesn’t feel real. It feels like a trial run for adulthood, an audition, that I didn’t sign up for.

And I hope that 26, 27, 28, 29, that they don’t become nothing years. Right now they feel like strikes on a chalkboard, my last years to finally figure it all out before it gets real. And I know, that life doesn’t end at 30, and this is what I tell my friends; age is just a number, some people figure it out early and some, some never do. What I have at 25 might be what some want at 20, what some have at 23 might be what others find themselves holding at 29, and at 30 I might not have the answers, and that will be okay too. I guess none of us really feel fully equipped for adulthood, we just have to take it one day at a time. The only way we can feel okay about the future is when we let it go, there is no point predicting and planning when so much is out of our control. So for 25, I find myself just trying to be me, as authentically as I can be, and trusting that if I lead with that, the rest will fall into place as it is meant to.

So here’s to 25 and all its confusion, stress, fear; to all its joy, unabashed self-expression, and to slowly stepping into who we are.

And if you’re not 25 and you’re reading this, go check on your friends in their quarter century; they’re probably not okay.