wildflowers, dear

I’m nearing my 28th birthday, which means I’m another step closer to 30, which means I’m no longer in a place where my youth is a reliable scapegoat. Realistically, I’ve never had the luxury of using that as an excuse, save for my quarter-life crisis (this is real) at the ripe old age of 25, when I decided that since I never really had a chance to be irresponsible and selfish and wonderfully reckless, I would just turn my world upside down and rip some hearts to shreds. It didn’t work out like that; it didn’t last long, and it didn’t end well. I quickly abandoned my feigned devil-may-care attitude and headed for solid ground…and officially grew the hell up.
 You see, I used to have this strange fear of contentment that kept me on my toes and ready to bolt. In my head, contentment always felt like settling, and I was the kind who was quick to screw it up before I got too comfortable. Contentment, it turned out, made me feel vulnerable, and when I feel vulnerable, I attack. It’s silly, really, because after a life full of chaos, you’d think I’d want nothing more than tranquility. And now that I’m older and of infinite wisdom (just go with it), I’m starting to realize that comfort, safety, happiness, stability  – these aren’t in the same realm as settling, and they’re not always a precursor of heartache. They’re states of being that everyone deserves to experience: to obtain, lose, regain, retain. Even me, in all of my infinite wisdom and weirdness. It’s a part of growing up, and I’m starting to feel comfortable with that notion.

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