I'm Twenty-Two Today

On liking myself, just as I am.

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t let a major milestone like this pass me by without some unnecessary musing over my position in the world and where I am in life.

A few years ago, if you’d shown me how I am now, I’d be a bit disappointed (understatement, but we’re trying to be positive here, okay?). It sounds brutal, I know, but younger me was also stubborn and far too ambitious for her own good—at least she’s learned to drop the Icarian tendencies by now, having been scorched one too many times. Yes, she had dreams and goals and tenacity, I still do, but it came in such an excess that she forgot to appreciate the simple things in front of her, and didn’t really recognise how she might actually have been okay just as she was. How being 17-21 is a joy and an agonising curse. Laughter amongst pain. Madness and melancholy and utter messes that make up what it means to be young and alive.

There will always be things I haven’t got, and things I thought I should have by now. I’ve not got a six figure book deal—I have’t even written a book. I’ve not written or directed a movie, not gone to the Oscars or found myself a famous trophy boyfriend. I’ve not even got a normal one, and, more often than not, they seem like a waste of time anyway. I’ve not got a horde of people outside my house waiting to catch a glimpse of me, tell me how much they love and adore me. Why did I ever want that?It seems like a nightmare now, and I’ve not actually got my own house anyway. I don’t have my own cat yet, my own set of knives and forks and plates, my own big girl salary to invest in Pinterest-worthy lampshades and bedspreads. Instead, I’m financially reliant on student loans and my parents. I no longer dream of mansions but of year-long central heating.

I do, however, have a whole lot more to be both grateful for and proud of. I’m immensely lucky to be educated, and nearing the end of a degree I once thought impossible. People aren’t pounding with adulation at my door, but I do have an almightily strong and supportive network of family and friends ready to support me at any quibble. I know I’d rather have that than a screaming horde. I have parents that love me unconditionally, who always let me know that, and will help me through university so I can put myself and my goals first. That makes me both lucky and privileged—that I keep very close to my conscience. To have all that by twenty-two is pretty good; I can’t argue with that.

This year I’ve finally learned to be confident in my own skin. I own it, and I know it. Many people never achieve that, so that is something I am quite proud of. I’ve learned to love myself like Mr Darcy—the Bridget Jones one, not Pride and Prejudice—not always most ardently, but definitely just as I am. That took a lot of work. I love my curly hair at last. I think my glasses are cute. My nose is great. My figure isn’t perfect but there’s no such thing. I feed myself properly and don’t need to invite Bella Hadid. My body is what it is, perfectly imperfect, structurally sound enough to get me out of bed every morning and alive and warm and breathing every day. Again, that really makes me lucky.

A brief glimpse into Evie’s inner dialogue

I’m so happy to be twenty-two, and I feel more accomplished with these little things than I ever did with the whole world’s worth of ambition at seventeen. I’m celebrating, and thank God I’m not plagued by an existential dread on my birthday for the first time in years. I’m not famous, model-thin or obscenely rich, but I’m okay right where I am, thank you. I am accomplished enough. I am capable enough. I am kind enough. I am, all things considered, enough. And that’s enough for me.