One month left of this forsaken but still beautiful year. In eleven months I’ve been remade a hundred times.

Not in sequence, just in truth: I graduated college. Moved to a new city. Worked for someone I’d admired for years. Loved someone I knew I couldn’t keep. Traveled across the world. And in the midst of it all, the ground gave out—my hometown burnt down and I lost a father figure who will never be replaced. I cut my hair in an act of surrender and sat with the pieces of my broken heart … and somehow, through all those scattered moments, I began to find my footing, even if it’s still a little shaky.

As for what I want before the clock strikes 2026—the list is simple: a steady job, a credit card I can pay off, friends who feel like family, nights that are pure and light.

If I zoom in closer: a published article, a new pair of MiuMiu flats, a blog I’m proud of, good health, maybe even my first tattoo.

I name these things knowing I’ve already been given so much. 

And because I’m still here, I owe it to myself to take risks. Our twenties aren’t supposed to be perfect—they’re supposed to be honest. This is the time to try things, to walk toward the places that pull at us, to learn what fits and what doesn’t. Even the small things count. At twenty-two, I’m allowed to explore without justifying it.

But writing is the one thing that feels like home. My mind moves fast, thoughts unspooling without end, but on the page I can press them into something that holds. Something formulaic yet alive.

I write because I believe one day these words will mean more than they do now. That documenting the raw, youthful mind matters. Twenty-two won’t last forever but the clarity I gained here will. And when I look back someday, I want to feel proud of how it all began.