When I was younger—in my teens and early-20s—I always saw 35 as being the ideal age, because it was young enough not to be socially considered “old,” but old enough that people would take you seriously as a legitimate adult.
This was the perception of a version of me who was almost always the youngest in the room when I was trying to learn things, start up scrappy little projects, and generally be taken seriously by my elders.
Youth was a burden to me in those days, and though I was aware that other age-related biases would eventually replace those familiar ones as I got older, I still suspected that 35 would be the sweet spot in terms of wanting to be able to get things done, being in a position to do them, and not being seen as too old or too young for anything.
I’ll be 36 in a couple of days, and—understatement of the century—my 35th year didn’t go exactly as planned.
Most of my ambitions for the year were blown to bits in early 2020, and though I’ve been able to fill some of the gaps with really wonderful and fulfilling experiences, projects, and knowledge, I still feel like I’m laying the foundation for something new right next to the smoldering crater of my previous aspirations.
Which isn’t the end of the world: I’m fortunate to be in a place where I can even think about foundations—many people are still stuck in the crater, and it’ll be years before our collective craters finally extinguish to the point where we can get up close, take a long, critical look, and figure out what to do with all the rubble.
I didn’t get to do as much with 35 as I would have liked, but I learned a lot about myself, and had experiences from which I’ll continue to harvest lessons for the rest of my life.
This past year wasn’t the cakewalk I expected, but I’m in some ways grateful for all the (difficult, painful, tedious) personal lessons, even if I desperately wish—on the macro scale—essentially everything had played out differently.
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