Yesterday, I turned 22. I’d secretly been dreading this day for ages, because I think ’22’ sounds so grown up: a care-free 21 year old no longer, this is the year I have to leave uni, get a job and just generally do adult things. The other day I had a bizarre mini-breakdown, all because I realised that I couldn’t do a French plait. Much to my housemate’s amusement/concern, I proceeded to sit in front of my mirror for a good 45 minutes, watching YouTube tutorial after YouTube tutorial; until I finally resigned myself to failure, convinced that I’d never make it as a fully-functioning adult now.
Whilst the French plait episode may’ve been a disaster, it led me to mull over the past year, and all the things that I can do. After setting myself the challenge of finishing a sports event (with a steady 5K in mind), in my twenty-first year I completed two lengthy mud runs. My band has recorded a single and won the university Battle of the Bands competition, playing the final at the Cavern Club. I’ve created new friendships and I’m in a new relationship; and I’ve grown in the friendships that I already had. I’ve travelled to different countries. I’ve found a new respect for my body, and now nourish it instead of letting it succumb to the eating disorders I had previously battled.
I’ve fed my love for music by going to amazing gigs, my favourite being when we were on the front row for Fleetwood Mac at Leeds Arena. I’ve given blood; I’ve been supportive when friends and family have needed me most. My weakling arms can now do five full press-ups. I have become more focused in my studies; I have started taking this blog more seriously.
I could go on to list all the things that I haven’t achieved in the last year, but I’ve come to realise that I am incredibly fortunate to be me. I am flawed, but I’m not half bad, either. And if the coming year is nearly as good as the last, I’m excited and ready to embrace it with open arms.