there will always be people who think of you as old, people who think of you as young

But age is not a signifier of anything other than a modern day calendar. Time passage is marked by personal growth, seasons of relationships, hairstyles and favorite songs. Height of children and broken bindings on books read time and time and time again. Things unlearned or relearned or simply learned. Love lost and fires started. Buildings and communities rebuilt and hideous systems dismantled and abolished. Recognition of your place in it all. Your agency trying to turn into your action. Pinpointing prickling trauma that has harmed you has harmed others. Avoiding triggers and navigating toward healthy reactions. Making mistakes and making better mistakes. Learning to set boundaries and maybe figuring out how to take care of yourself as an act of love for everyone in your orbit. Getting comfortable with silence and discomfort and your smallness. Nestling up to grief. Laughing so hard you clap your feet together. Giving up all your possessions and finding a tiny blue Buffalo in a thrift store, setting it on a single shelf and calling it home. Letting your dog be its grumpy self. Forgiving your ancestors while confronting their complacency. Not shaving your armpits but shaving your legs. Not giving zero fucks but instead being more mindful about where you give your fucks. Orgasms during pandemics. Journal entries you’ll never read again. Anonymous gifts to spread joy. And gratitude that begets more gratitude that begets love and swirls around you for this wild and bitter, lonely and loving existence.