Twenty-five

Yesterday I turned 25.

And honestly? That’s still weird to say out loud. Something about that number feels like a threshold—in the same way that 18 did when I was branching off on my own. Something foggy yet electric stands on the other side.

I spent yesterday with family and friends, the way my best birthdays have always been spent. There was good food, laughter, quiet moments. Comfort. I’m grateful for every second of it.

If 24 taught me anything, it’s that I’m still figuring myself out—and that’s not a bad thing. I learn something new about who I am every single day. I’ve watched my self-discipline strengthen, my morals take shape, my likes and dislikes come into clearer focus. I picked up painting. I published my first book. I made things I never thought I could, and I proved to myself—over and over—that I am capable of building the life I want.

To me, 25 feels like a year of growth. Of change. Of beginning to settle into myself—not in the sense of slowing down, but in the sense of getting rooted. Grounded. A little more sure of the soil I’m standing on.

If I could talk to my younger self, I wouldn’t give her any advice. I wouldn’t change a thing. The downfalls, the highs, the heartbreaks and joys—they all brought me here. I’d just tell her to keep going. To keep pushing. To keep becoming.

There’s still so much I want—big dreams and everyday ones. I want to run a marathon by 30. I want to own a home. I want to keep writing stories that mean something. I want to make things. Try things. Rest when I need to, but never stop reaching.

So here’s to 25. To whatever’s waiting on the other side of that threshold. I’m ready for it.