Twenty-Two and Still Figuring It Out

 on growing older, unmet expectations, and the uncomfortable realization that adulthood doesn't come with an instruction manual.

Dear Diary,

    In exactly ten days, I'll be twenty-two.

    Twenty-two on the twenty-second, to be exact. My golden birthday. An occasion that, according to the internet, is supposed to be particularly magical. And while I would love nothing more than to romanticize the occasion, I can't help but find myself reflecting on the past twenty-two years of my life. More specifically, how different my life looks from the one I always imagined I'd have by now.

    When I was younger, twenty-two sounded so... grown.

    I imagined that by this age, I'd be living some glamorous, independent life. I'd have my own apartment (preferably decorated entirely in pink), a closet full of clothes I could actually afford, an exciting social life, and, of course, a boyfriend who was hopelessly in love with me. I'd be thriving academically, working toward a career I was passionate about, and somehow have both the freedom and the financial stability to do whatever I wanted.

    Essentially, I thought I'd have it all figured out.

    Spoiler alert: I do not.

    At almost twenty-two, I'm still living at home. I'm still trying to figure out my academic future. My love life could probably qualify as its own psychological case study. And despite technically being an adult for nearly four years, there are days when I feel like I have less independence than I did at seventeen.

    Not exactly the Carrie Bradshaw-esque existence I had envisioned for myself.

    But I think what bothers me most isn't necessarily where I am in life. It's the distance between where I am and where I thought I would be.

    I've been thinking a lot about the concept of timeline anxiety, or the distress that comes from feeling like you're falling behind some invisible schedule. Graduate by this age. Get your dream job by that age. Fall in love, move out, become financially independent, have your life together.

    And somehow, even when nobody explicitly tells us we're behind, we convince ourselves that we are.

    I know, logically, that twenty-two is young. In the grand scheme of things, I've barely scratched the surface of adulthood. Yet knowing that doesn't always stop me from feeling like I'm running out of time.

    Which is ridiculous, really.

    Running out of time for what? To become successful? To experience love? To make mistakes? To figure out who I am?

    Since when did life become a race I don't remember signing up for?

    I think part of the problem is that I've spent so much of my life imagining future versions of myself. The high school version of me was waiting for college. The college version of me was waiting for independence. And now, the almost-twenty-two-year-old version of me is waiting for some magical point in the future when everything will finally fall into place.

    It's almost as though I've convinced myself that my real life hasn't started yet.

    That once I transfer schools, once I move out, once I find the right person, once I finally become the version of myself I've been imagining for years, then I'll be happy.

    But what happens to all the years I spend waiting?

    That's the part that scares me.

    I don't want to look back at my twenties and realize I spent the entire decade wishing I were somewhere else. I don't want to become so consumed by the person I'm trying to become that I forget to appreciate the person I already am.

    And yet, I don't want to pretend that everything is wonderful, either.

    Because the truth is, this year has been difficult.

    I've experienced disappointment in areas of my life that once felt certain. I've questioned decisions I thought I'd already made. I've watched relationships change, family dynamics shift, and plans unravel in ways I never anticipated.

    There have been moments when I've felt like I was finally growing into myself, followed almost immediately by moments when I felt like I was seventeen again.

    And maybe that's another uncomfortable part of growing up: realizing that progress isn't linear.

    You can become more confident and still feel insecure. You can learn to set boundaries and still struggle to enforce them. You can recognize your unhealthy patterns and still find yourself repeating them.

    You can grow up without necessarily feeling grown.

    I think seventeen-year-old me would be surprised by the person I've become.

    She'd probably be disappointed that I don't have my own apartment yet. She'd definitely have a few questions about my dating history. And she'd probably be horrified to discover that, after years of fantasizing about adulthood, I'm still trying to convince other people that I'm capable of making my own decisions.

    But I think she'd also be proud of me.

    Not because I've accomplished everything I planned to, but because I've experienced things she never imagined. I've traveled, fallen for people, had my heart broken, made new friends, and learned things about myself that I could never have understood from the safety of my teenage bedroom.

    I've made mistakes. Some of them pretty significant ones.

    But I've also survived every version of my life that I once thought would be the end of the world.

    And that has to count for something.

    Maybe twenty-two isn't supposed to be the age where I finally have all the answers. Maybe it's simply another year of learning how to ask better questions.

    What do I actually want, separate from what other people want for me? What makes me happy when I'm not seeking somebody else's approval? Who am I when I'm not trying to prove that I'm worthy of love, success, or independence?

    And perhaps most importantly, can I learn to appreciate my life while it's still a work in progress?

    I don't have answers to any of those questions yet.

    But for once, I'm trying to be okay with that.

    In ten days, I'll blow out twenty-two candles. I'll dress up, take an obnoxious number of pictures, and hopefully spend the evening surrounded by people I love.

    I'll probably make a wish, too.

    But I don't think I'll wish for a perfect boyfriend, a perfect academic record, or a perfectly planned future.

    I think I'll wish for the courage to create a life that actually feels like mine.

    Because if there's one thing I'm beginning to understand, it's that growing older doesn't automatically mean knowing who you are.

    Sometimes, it just means becoming a little more comfortable with the fact that you don't.

    And maybe that's enough for now.

    After all, I'm only twenty-two.

    Well, almost.

xoxo, Keke♡

The Art of Being the Cool Girl ♡

 or: how i learned to ask for nothing and still ended up disappointed.

Dear Diary, 

    I've always considered myself a pretty understanding girl.

    Busy with work? I get it. School is stressful? Trust me, I understand. Can't text me throughout the day? That's fine, we all have lives outside of our phones.

    At least, that's what I tell myself.

    And for the most part, I mean it. I don't expect a man to dedicate every waking moment to me. I have my own responsibilities, my own friends, and my own life to worry about. I understand that people get busy, that relationships require patience, and that not every moment of silence is indicative of something going wrong.

    But lately, I've started to wonder something.

Am I actually as laid-back as I claim to be, or have I just gotten really good at pretending that things don't bother me?

    Because there's a difference between being understanding and being afraid to ask for more. And I'm starting to realize that I've spent a considerable amount of time confusing the two.

the girl who doesn't ask for much

    I think I've always wanted to be the kind of girl who's easy to love.

    Not necessarily the prettiest, funniest, or most interesting girl in the room. Just the girl who makes someone's life a little easier. The one who understands when he's busy, gives him space when he needs it, and doesn't turn every little inconvenience into an argument.

    The cool girl, essentially.

    She's independent. She's patient. She's never clingy, never demanding, and certainly never the kind of girl who asks, "Why haven't you texted me?"

    And I think, somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that being this girl would make me more desirable.

    After all, who wouldn't want someone who understands them?

    Except I've started noticing that whenever I genuinely like somebody, I become hyperaware of how much of myself I'm allowing them to see.

    If I miss him, I hesitate to say it.

    If something bothers me, I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding whether it's even worth bringing up.

    If I want more attention, I remind myself that he's busy and that I should be grateful for whatever time he can give me.

    And if I do eventually say something, I feel the need to soften it with a hundred disclaimers.

    I'm not trying to pressure you.

    I know you have a lot going on.

    I don't expect you to text me all the time.

    I promise I'm not upset.

    Sometimes, I wonder who I'm trying harder to convince. Him or myself.

being understanding vs. being convenient

    Something I've had to confront recently is the possibility that my understanding nature can become a form of self-abandonment.

    Which is a difficult thing to admit, because I genuinely value being considerate of other people's circumstances.

    I never want to be the person who makes someone feel guilty for having a life outside of me. I don't believe that love should require someone to sacrifice their ambitions, friendships, or personal responsibilities.

    But I've realized that I can acknowledge somebody else's circumstances without completely dismissing my own feelings.

    A person can be genuinely busy, and I can still feel neglected.

    Someone can have a perfectly reasonable explanation for their behavior, and I can still be hurt by it.

    Both things can be true.

    And yet, whenever I find myself in that situation, my first instinct is rarely to ask whether I'm happy with what's happening.

    Instead, I try to understand why it's happening.

    I analyze his schedule, his responsibilities, his stress levels, his previous experiences. I come up with explanations for behaviors that leave me feeling confused or disappointed.

    And before I know it, I've become so preoccupied with understanding him that I've stopped considering myself.

    It's almost funny, really.

    I can extend an unbelievable amount of grace to someone I'm interested in, but the second I want something in return, I start questioning whether I'm being unreasonable.

the fear of being "too much"

    I think this is where my anxious attachment starts showing itself in ways that aren't immediately obvious.

    When people think of anxious attachment, they often imagine someone who's constantly calling, texting, or demanding reassurance.

    But sometimes, at least in my experience, it looks like the complete opposite.

    Sometimes it looks like staring at a message for twenty minutes because you're afraid of sounding needy.

    Sometimes it looks like pretending you're perfectly fine with an arrangement that secretly makes you unhappy.

    Sometimes it looks like giving someone space they never explicitly asked for because you're terrified of becoming a burden.

    I don't necessarily think I have a problem expressing affection. If anything, I have an abundance of it to give.

    What I struggle with is expressing disappointment.

    Because affection feels relatively safe. Telling someone you miss them or want to see them can be sweet, even flattering.

    But telling someone they've hurt your feelings? That requires a different kind of vulnerability.

    It means admitting that their behavior affects you.

    It means giving them the opportunity to decide whether your feelings are something they care enough to address.

    And I think that's what scares me.

    Not necessarily the possibility of an argument, but the possibility that I'll finally express what I need and discover that the other person simply doesn't want to give it to me.

    So instead, I tell myself that I don't need much.

    Because it's easier to pretend I don't want something than to ask for it and be disappointed.

and where has that gotten me?

    Here's the part that really bothers me.

    Despite all the effort I've put into being patient, understanding, and accommodating, I've still found myself disappointed.

    I've still been left confused.

    I've still spent nights overthinking conversations, rereading messages, and wondering what I could've done differently.

    And that's when I started asking myself a question that probably should've occurred to me much sooner.

If I'm doing everything I can to make sure someone doesn't feel pressured by me, who's making sure I feel secure with them?

    Because I think I've spent so much time trying to be someone else's peace that I've forgotten relationships are supposed to bring me some peace, too.

    I shouldn't have to rehearse a perfectly worded message just to express a perfectly normal feeling.

    I shouldn't have to convince myself that wanting consistency is equivalent to being clingy.

    And I certainly shouldn't have to make myself smaller to keep someone interested.

    The irony is that I did all of this because I was afraid that asking for too much would push someone away.

    But sometimes, they leave anyway.

    And then I'm left wondering why I spent so much energy pretending I was okay with things that were hurting me.

maybe i'm not as chill as i thought

    I like attention.

    There. I said it.

    I like good morning texts, random updates throughout the day, spontaneous phone calls, and knowing that somebody is thinking about me.

    I like reassurance. I like affection. I like consistency.

    I like feeling wanted, and not just when it's convenient.

    And I don't think any of those things make me unreasonable.

    Of course, I understand that nobody can provide those things constantly. I don't expect perfection, and I'm certainly not expecting someone to read my mind.

    But I do want to feel comfortable expressing those desires without immediately worrying that I've become too much to handle.

    I think the goal isn't to stop being understanding.

    It's to stop using understanding as an excuse to ignore my own needs.

    I can be patient without waiting indefinitely.

    I can respect someone's schedule without accepting a relationship that leaves me feeling lonely.

    I can give someone space without convincing myself that I don't deserve their time.

    And perhaps most importantly, I can express disappointment without apologizing for having feelings in the first place.

retiring the cool girl

    I don't think I'll ever stop wanting to be an understanding partner. It's a quality I genuinely like about myself, and I don't want to lose it.

    But I do want to stop treating my emotional needs like they're an inconvenience.

    Because the more I think about it, the more ridiculous the whole concept of being the "cool girl" becomes.

    Cool according to whom?

    The guy who doesn't have to worry about disappointing me because I'll convince myself that his behavior is understandable?

    The guy who never has to ask what I need because I've made a point of pretending I don't need anything?

    Or me, the girl who's silently upset but would rather overanalyze the situation than risk having an uncomfortable conversation?

    I'm beginning to think that being easygoing isn't always the virtue I've made it out to be.

    Sometimes, it's just fear dressed up as maturity.

    And maybe the version of myself I should be striving toward isn't the girl who never asks for anything.

    Maybe it's the girl who can ask for what she wants, accept the answer, and walk away if it isn't enough.

    Because I don't want to spend the rest of my dating life being so afraid of losing someone that I end up losing myself instead.

    And if expressing my needs makes me a little less "cool," then so be it.

I'd rather be honest about what I want than be endlessly understanding about what I'm not getting.

xoxo, Keke♡

The Politics of a Childhood Bedroom

on family dynamics, growing pains, and the strange feeling of being a stranger in your own home.

Dear Diary,

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately. More specifically, how strange it is that a place can simultaneously be your greatest source of familiarity and your greatest source of discomfort.

When I was younger, my bedroom was my sanctuary. It was where I could retreat from the world, shut the door, and exist without having to explain myself to anybody. Now, at almost 22, I find myself sitting in that same bedroom, staring at the same four walls, wondering when exactly my sanctuary started feeling like a cage.

I think the wedding had a lot to do with it.

As beautiful as Sicily was, and as wonderful as it was to watch my sister marry someone she loves, the trip wasn't entirely the fairytale I had imagined. Somewhere between the celebrations, the beautiful scenery, and the endless festivities, certain tensions within my family reached a boiling point.

I'm not going to go into the specifics, partly because I don't think it's my place to air out everybody else's grievances on the internet, and partly because the specifics aren't really what I want to talk about.

What I do want to talk about is what happens when an argument becomes something much bigger than the thing that started it.

Because that's what happened.

A relatively insignificant inconvenience turned into a confrontation that, in my opinion, could have been avoided entirely. Words were exchanged, voices were raised, and suddenly, relationships that had existed for years were being reconsidered in a matter of hours.

And I was left watching it all unfold.

I've always found it interesting how families operate almost like miniature political systems. There are hierarchies, alliances, expectations, unspoken rules, and consequences for disrupting the established order. Certain people are allowed to express their frustrations freely, while others are expected to accommodate them. Some conflicts are resolved through conversation, while others are supposedly resolved through silence.

And perhaps the most fascinating part is how everybody seems to understand these rules without anybody ever explicitly establishing them.

In my family, I've learned that keeping the peace and actually having peace are two very different things.

Sometimes, keeping the peace means choosing not to say something. Sometimes it means pretending you aren't bothered. Sometimes it means adjusting your behavior to accommodate somebody else's emotions, even when those emotions have nothing to do with you.

And sometimes, it means watching something happen that you fundamentally disagree with, knowing that inserting yourself into the situation will only make it worse.

I've become rather good at that last one.

But there was something particularly unsettling about what happened in Sicily. It wasn't necessarily the argument itself. Arguments happen. People lose their patience, say things they don't mean, and occasionally behave in ways they aren't proud of.

What unsettled me was the familiarity of it.

For a moment, I felt like I was sixteen again.

I recognized the raised voices, the tension, the instinct to make myself smaller and wait for everything to pass. It was a version of my adolescence that I hadn't thought about in quite some time, and one I had absolutely no desire to revisit.

It's a strange experience, realizing that you can spend years growing and changing as a person, only for a familiar environment to make you feel like you've traveled backward in time.

I wasn't sixteen anymore. I knew that.

But I certainly felt like her.

And now that we're home, there's an almost surreal expectation that life should simply resume as normal.

The suitcases have been unpacked, the wedding photographs are being shared, and everybody is settling back into their routines. On the surface, not much has changed.

Except, of course, everything has.

Some relationships feel more distant. Some conversations carry a different weight. There are things that have been said that cannot necessarily be unsaid, and impressions that cannot simply be erased.

Yet the house itself remains exactly the same.

I think that's the part I've been struggling with most.

Other people have the ability to establish distance. They can return to their own homes, create boundaries, and decide how much interaction they're comfortable having.

I don't really have that luxury.

I'm still here, in the bedroom I've occupied for most of my life, existing within a family structure that increasingly feels incompatible with the person I'm becoming.

And the irony is that I don't even particularly dislike my bedroom. I love my things. I love the familiarity. I love knowing exactly where everything is.

What I don't love is the feeling that my world has somehow gotten smaller as I've gotten older.

At an age when I'm supposed to be discovering independence, I find myself negotiating for things as ordinary as leaving the house to study at a coffee shop.

Something that shouldn't require much explanation somehow becomes a point of contention.

And I've started noticing how much of my daily life revolves around maintaining the appearance of things being fine.

Appearing productive. Appearing agreeable. Appearing unbothered.

It's exhausting, really, having to perform a version of yourself that makes other people comfortable.

Especially when that performance comes at the expense of actually feeling comfortable yourself.

I don't think the people around me necessarily recognize this. From their perspective, everything probably seems perfectly ordinary. I'm home, I'm studying, I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

But being physically present somewhere doesn't necessarily mean you're happy to be there.

And compliance shouldn't automatically be mistaken for contentment.

Sometimes I wonder whether this is simply an inevitable part of growing up. The gradual realization that your parents are not just your parents, but people with their own unresolved emotions, insecurities, and patterns of behavior.

As children, we tend to view our parents through the roles they occupy in our lives. They're authority figures, protectors, providers. Their decisions feel definitive, their perspectives feel absolute, and their imperfections are things we don't always have the language to identify.

Then, somewhere along the way, we develop our own perspectives.

We start recognizing contradictions. We begin questioning behaviors we once accepted without thinking. We realize that loving somebody doesn't require agreeing with them, and that gratitude doesn't necessarily cancel out frustration.

I think that's where I am right now.

I love my family. I always will.

But I'm also beginning to understand that love and emotional proximity are not necessarily the same thing.

You can care about people and still need distance from them. You can appreciate everything they've done for you and still disagree with how they treat you. You can understand why somebody behaves the way they do without believing that their behavior is acceptable.

And perhaps most importantly, you can want things to change without wishing the people involved were different people entirely.

The wedding was supposed to mark the beginning of a new chapter. And it did, just not exclusively in the way anybody anticipated.

My sister has started a new life, and the structure of our family has shifted in ways that I don't think any of us fully understand yet.

For me, it has brought an uncomfortable realization to the surface: I've spent so much time trying to preserve the familiar that I haven't really considered whether the familiar is still good for me.

Four months ago, my life looked very different. I had more freedom, more independence, and a sense that I was gradually growing into adulthood.

I miss that version of my life.

But I also wonder whether what I'm really mourning is the feeling of possibility that came with it.

The ability to make small decisions without anticipating a reaction. The freedom to exist outside of other people's expectations. The comfort of knowing that my choices belonged to me, even when they were insignificant.

I don't need some grand declaration of independence. I don't need to dramatically pack my things and disappear into the sunset.

I just want to feel like my life is mine again.

Maybe that's why my childhood bedroom has started feeling so different.

The room hasn't changed. The furniture hasn't moved. The walls are still the same.

I'm just not the same girl who grew up inside them.

And I think, more than anything, I'm ready for my surroundings to reflect that.

Until next time,

xoxo, Keke♡