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I hope to say of the second half of my twenties that I was gentle, but unapologetic. I hope that I can say I learned that I don’t owe anyone anything; in everything there is choice, and also not everyone deserves to see every corner of my heart. I hope I will be more spontaneous and less reserved, that I will jump in more lakes and dance without care and wake up in the middle of the night and drive to another city, and say “yes, why not?” more often. I hope I made plans to be close to the ocean, if not because I now live in a beach bungalow by the sea, then because every vacation brought me back there. I hope I showed less worry about how my body looks to others, that I didn’t cross my arms so much or hunch my shoulders, that I didn’t stress about being the prettiest or the most put together, that I ate well  and healthy and often and ordered carrot cake from my favourite restaurant, because it feels better. I hope I will say I was not afraid to ask for more, of myself, of others. I hope I will be able to say I did more work, that my hands were ink stained and eyes weary from staying up later to do something really, really well, or because I was at my friend’s house painting or holding her hand.

I hope I can say I became  really reliable friend. I hope I made the time to sit down for coffee and came over to help move and did your dishes. I hope that when friends asked something of me, I was already there.

And in Love: that I didn’t welcome someone in just because I was lonely, because there is nothing more lonely than going to sleep beside someone that is not your home. That I didn’t apologize for all of the uncontrollable giggles I sometimes get, or the fact that I like to sleep in at least two days a week, or that I don’t drink whiskey or scotch, or that I’m not good at snowboarding or tennis (because sometimes people use those kinds of things to make you feel small). I hope I didn’t apologize for the fact that I wanted to throw my arms around your neck and kiss you in the market.

I hope that I will say that I made room for the things I love, even if making room means eating spaghetti four nights a week for a whole year (and I don’t particularly love spaghetti), or leaving this city or staying in this city or singing songs that sometimes I don’t like, or living in apartments that don’t have a lot of windows. I hope that I will be able to say that I tried really hard, and I shared everything, and I put in the work.

I hope I was more mindful of my wild heart, and all its musings. I hope I was more available and less doubtful to the possibility that my life can be richer and more full than I could ever even consume.

[Photo from Madewell].