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Something reminded me the other day that I’m not 24 anymore. By reminding me that I once was. It was an oddly sharp realisation. A pang in my heart. 24 sounds so fresh to me now. Now that I’m 27, which is the age impressive people seem to be. I recall many times in my life where I’ve admired the achievements of relatively young people, and found out that they’re 27, and thought with relief that I still had time to be impressive.

Of course I know that time isn’t up. But it’s hard not to feel a bit behind when I’m filled with ambition. Ambition but, I guess, not enough direction. I had a lot of things I needed to figure out before I could start figuring out that part. And now I’m going to have a massive new exciting challenge in my life in the form of a tiny human, and it’s very feasible that I will lose track of my personal ambition for a while.

And that’s okay. And I remind myself that that’s okay whenever I think about it. And I can be quite kind to myself these days.

But still, I’m not 24 anymore.

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