I’ve had nearly a month to come to terms with the fact that this next year is about waving goodbye to who I was in my 20s. This isn’t an ‘I'm sorry, the old Taylor can't come to the phone right now. Why? Oh, 'cause she's dead’ moment (although shoutout to Taylor Swift for purchasing her masters).
The old Taylor still very much exists, and she will pick up the phone from time to time. She’s in my daydreams, in my heartbeat, in the way I make my coffee in the morning, the way I select a fragrance before running out the door, but there’s also a new person here, too. One who knows the next chapter of her life is going to lead to closed doors and open windows, new faces and old ones fading, bursts of warmth and swallowed up cloudy days.
In my 20s, I learned to talk about the hard things, to be lonely, to open up, to tell people what I wanted, to trust in good faith, and to close myself off again. I learned how to canoe, and how to identify salamanders, I became politically involved and attended city council meetings, I lived in a foreign country for a summer, I quilted blankets for the babies of friends, I wrote letters, and learned how to get calligraphy ink out of my skin and clothes. I also found a groove in reconnecting with old friends. Their smiles, our shared memories, our new dreams. Time is a funny concept because when you have a true friend, reconnecting feels like no time has passed at all.
In the afternoons lately, I’ve been riding my dad’s old bike. It was a hobby I wasn’t sure of when it was first introduced to me. I mean—I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was in middle school, and as someone who is accident-prone—I was a bit terrified. But after I found my balance, I remembered that my mind slows down when I’m under the trees. With quilting, paddling, or even hiking, I am too busy wondering what the next move should be. I forget that sometimes I don’t have to have a plan, I can just see what happens.
When I’m on my bike, when I feel the wind kissing the tips of my ears and can hear the song of a bird off a nearby branch, I’m allowed the freedom to be quiet. I feel like I don’t have to always be in control of things, I don’t have to lead. I can just be myself. On my bike, it’s easier to let go of everything that worries or pains me.
Earlier this week, I was on a greenway when I passed a juvenile box turtle. My bike came to a screeching halt as soon as I passed the bright yellow and olive green shell. They sat on the side of the road like a little mountain, a tall rock with claws and a mean stare. It felt like a brilliant discovery! As if I were the first person in the world to see a reptile.
I slid off my bike and tiptoed towards my new friend. Its red eye glowed at me, friendly yet anxious. They hesitated, curling slightly into themself as I approached as if to say, I don’t need your help, lady! For your information, I’m a very independent turtle.
I’d never tried to move a turtle before, and was trying to predict how likely it was that I’d end up with a hand covered in bandages. The greenway was relatively quiet, I had only seen a few people pass me. I was close to my goal mileage and decided that if I turned around and saw the turtle again, and they hadn’t moved, I would be brave and help usher them across the road.
It turns out I wasn’t the one who needed to be brave. A half hour later, I was passing the spot again, and my box turtle friend was on the edge of the other side of the road. They were posed towards me, as if they were waiting to prove me wrong, as if to tell me, I have myself, I didn’t need you to help me be brave. And so I smiled and decided to trust my turtle friend before continuing my way home. What do I know about the attitudes and needs of turtles anyway?
Maybe that’s the first lesson of my 29th year—letting go and knowing that there are things out of my control that I’ll never understand.
This lesson wasn’t as harsh as I thought it would be. I don’t feel as resistant to change as I once was. I feel tired, but I feel free at the same time. This year, I want to be someone on the sidelines, a supportive person rather than an active one.
You might be wondering why you haven’t heard from me in a couple of months. The truth of the matter is I’ve been doing a lot of writing at my 9 to 5, and that drains my creative battery. I’m seeing the end of the finish line there, I can feel the editor in the back of my brain start to dust off the cobwebs that cover the walls and my imaginary writing desk, she says it’s been too long, that I have to get back to the real work.
While I know this year is about waving goodbye to my 20s, I’m also welcoming in the person I’m going to be in my 30s.
Let this chapter be a celebration of your 20s and of letting go of the things we can’t control. Who were you in that period of your life, and what did you learn? How did those years help create the foundation for your 30s?
Send me your last summer advice. I know it’s not really the last summer, but I want to have a beach-lounging-river-rat-adventurous-mimosa-splashed summer—and I’ll need your guidance.
Also:
Development team withdraws Creekside applications to prioritize on-campus Samford University projects | Homewood Star
Shout out to Friends of Shades Creek for being a voice in our community and reminding developers and Samford University that they have a duty to protect our green spaces.
The Veggie: Recipes for touching grass | NYT Cooking
These New Yorkers are Touching Grass | New York Times
Nat Geo’s Guide to Touching Grass | National Geographic