Wee baby Melanie. Amsterdam, 2005.
Thirty seems like one of those pressure-y holidays, like New Years and Valentine's Day, where you are supposed to have things be this shiny ideal way. Have your career at least figured out, school done, etc etc etc. I've given myself deadlines for specific things I've wanted to learn/do/see by thirty, but was too lazy to actually hold myself to it.
I'm mostly very proud of my experiences and what I've accomplished this far. I have no major regrets (because what's the point of putting energy into that kind of stuff anyway) and am grateful for all the fun adventures and weird shit and hard times. Even so, I'm frustrated.
I'm frustrated that I am still trying to figure out my career, with too many schemes and dreams for one lifetime, and no real idea if any of this is actually feasible and if so how to even start to make it happen. I'm frustrated that I have been dawdling about going back to school, and that the longer I wait the more frustrating it gets. This feeling like I'm short on time is new.... I no longer have a decade to dick around. If I'm going to do something I need to commit and just do it. Easier said than done.
NYC is the perfect place to be for me right now. I know this. There's inspiration and opportunity everywhere, but there's also fierce competition everywhere. People are focused, decisive, and serious. All ways of being that are rather foreign to me. This city is going to kick my ass, in a way that I really need. Every day I'm taking steps closer, trying to take my life seriously, be intentional, and break outside my comfort zone. There's no time to be comfortable here. If you stop, complacent and full and sleepy, that intense current that this monstrous city thrives on will just go right by.
My love. Italy, 2012.
All from last year's European adventure. Italy, 2012.