Because youth isn’t just how you look—it’s how you live.
Lately, I’ve found myself staring at the ceiling, asking a question that feels both ridiculous and deeply sincere: “Why do I feel so old?”
Let’s consider the facts. I’m 38. Single. Never been married. No kids. I work from home, wear SPF, drink water like it’s my side hustle, and avoid stress the way you avoid bumping into your ex at the grocery store. Genetically blessed (or maybe just good with lighting), people often say I look like I’m in my twenties.
In fact, I regularly get told I look 25. And honestly? I eat that up. That compliment is my love language.
But here’s the strange part: I don’t feel 25.
Some days, I don’t even feel 38. I feel… 68. Like I’m dragging a tired soul through life, checking off tasks from a never-ending to-do list I never agreed to. My back cracks when I stretch sometimes. I drink tea at night. I now read ingredient labels like they’re plot twists in a thriller. And somewhere along the way, I began moving through life like someone who was quietly giving up on being excited about anything.
It hit me hard: I’ve been thinking old—even though I still look young.
And let’s be honest—I didn’t always feel this way.
When I actually was 25, I didn’t obsess over timelines or being “behind.” I didn’t compare myself to curated highlight reels on Instagram or feel shame for not having a five-year plan. I was just living—experimenting, failing, laughing, starting over. There was lightness in how I moved through the world, a quiet rebellion against the idea that adulthood had to look like structure and seriousness.
But for a while now, that spark has been flickering.
I’ve felt this invisible pressure tightening around me—to be more polished, more accomplished, more “together” by now. At almost 40, wasn’t I supposed to be settled? Shouldn’t I be done figuring things out?
The noise in my head grew louder, until one particular day shifted everything.
I had a client call scheduled for my freelancing business. To be honest, I wasn’t in a good headspace. I felt heavy, discouraged. Life felt like it had passed me by while I was too distracted trying to “figure things out.” There was this ache in my chest I couldn’t shake—a quiet fear that maybe I’d missed the boat.
But then I showed up to that Zoom meeting.
And as soon as she appeared on screen, something inside me shifted. This client—let’s call her Anna—had this calming presence, the kind of grounded energy that doesn’t just speak, it reaches you. She asked how I was, and for a moment I considered brushing it off. But something about her made me feel safe enough to be honest.
Then she said something that stopped me in my tracks.
“So what if I have lines on my face or I look older in photos? My sister would’ve loved to grow old. She died young—she never got that chance. I remind myself of that every time I feel insecure. I’m grateful for all the ‘getting older’ problems. They mean I’m still here.”
Her words hit like a wave.
I sat there, eyes stinging, heart softening. In that moment, her perspective cracked something open in me. I realized I’d been treating life like a race I was losing, rather than a gift I got to unwrap every single day.
Later that night, I watched Awakenings—the movie with Robin Williams and Robert De Niro. And that sent me into another spiral of realization. Watching those characters grasp at moments of aliveness reminded me just how much I take for granted. The simple things. The sacred, ordinary things.
Somewhere between that conversation and that film, I remembered: I am still alive. I am still becoming. I am still allowed to feel joy, even if life doesn’t look like I thought it would.
And that’s when it really sank in: I don’t have to think old if I don’t want to.
Just because society says I should be slowing down, doesn’t mean I need to. I don’t owe anyone the version of adulthood that looks like khakis, casseroles, and quiet resignation.
I have a choice.
And I’m choosing to reconnect with the version of me that still felt alive—the 25-year-old me.
Not because I want to recreate my twenties (although, I wouldn’t mind stealing a few outfits back), but because that girl carried a fire. She was playful. She was hopeful. She didn’t shame herself for not having it all figured out. She danced in the living room just because the music was good. She didn’t care what people thought as long as she was curious and growing.
That’s what I miss. That’s what I want back.
No, I don’t wake up every morning feeling radiant or ready to take on the world. But I am learning to reclaim her—bit by bit. With grace. With intention. With softness.
I’m choosing joy over pressure.
Play over perfection.
Possibility over panic.
Being “forever 25” isn’t about pretending I’m younger than I am. It’s about preserving the energy that version of me had. The faith. The openness. The belief that anything could still happen.
I’m still figuring out who I am, and honestly? I think that’s kind of beautiful.
I’m learning how to be excited about life again—not just going through the motions, but actually waking up and wondering, What could today bring?
Sometimes that excitement is a solo coffee shop date with my journal.
Other days, it’s saying no to things that drain me, because 25-year-old me would’ve never tolerated people-pleasing at the cost of her peace.
And sometimes? It’s dancing in my kitchen at midnight, barefoot and laughing, making noodles while belting Ariana Grande like I’m still in college.
So, no—I don’t need to “act my age.”
I need to act the way I want to feel.
And right now? I want to feel free. Light. Open. Unapologetically alive.
Maybe this version of me—this almost-40, slightly tired, but deeply hopeful woman—is actually the best one yet.
So when people ask how old I am, I’ll smile and say:
“Technically 38. But spiritually, emotionally, and playfully? I’m forever 25.”
