turning twenty-five, grudgingly.

When I wake up tomorrow (probably before I go to sleep tonight) I will have turned 25.

This isn’t momentous, it’s ominous. I’m worried about being 25, if only because the ill-defined list of ‘who I am supposed to be’ for this year has fewer checks than boxes.

The worry is, am I falling behind my expectations because they are unreasonable? Because I’m not yet able to fully realize or display whatever potential I have? Or because I’m still in denial about my potential, and am in the end not as useful as I think.

The short version of where this insecurity comes from is as follows; at one point in my life I was more or less convinced that I was brilliant. Not smart or intelligent, but brilliant. I’m very, very sure that realizing I’m not brilliant is the most important thing I’ve done thus far, in terms of becoming a useful person.

But I’m also fairly sure that it isn’t a simple realization for anyone.

When I fall short of my goals, my ideal plan for myself, that is the thought that vibrates in the back of my mind. That I am going to, some day soon, come to the realization that I’m less intelligent, less capable, less useful than I think I am.

And I think one more of those realizations will be disheartening, to say the least. Coming towards my personal quarter century is enough of a benchmark that these feelings are to be expected, though they remain unwelcome.