25 [+1]

“Another one of my friends is joining as well,” my flatmate casually announced while we were sitting on the couch scrolling on our respective phones, “he’s bringing his sister too.”

I allowed that information to settle. And then, I allowed myself to savour the ease with which we turned a casual 4 person get together into a relatively small party, perhaps the last time we’d do it in such a carefree way before the new regulations came into play.

There was no need for a week in advance notice, no need for preparation or planning, no anxiety over what time it would end and whose sleep it would disturb.

It was easy and simple and I had not had that since I’d moved into the flat 11 months ago (I had a different flatmate for the first 10 months of that time). And I clung onto the momentary peace of living in a flat where not everything needed to be difficult and complicated and stressful. I cherished the new dynamic of the flat, that not only welcomed people but had somehow turned the place into a safe space for people to come together, laugh and talk about everything and anything.

I gripped that feeling tightly all night, I listened to the sounds of people laughing, I talked about diversity and equality and somehow, it felt like everything might be OK after all.

•••

It had been a weird year. The world somehow felt different. I had felt like a lot of things I cared about had been taken away from me, a lot of opportunities I was expecting to have were put into lockdown — for the lack of a better word. I continuously made the joke that in 4 days when my birthday comes around, I’m going to declare that I’ve not aged because I’d spent the majority of my 25th year in lockdown on my own doing absolutely nothing exciting — much like the rest of the world.

But somehow, despite a pandemic and a lockdown, it had been a hell of a years.

Shortly after my 25th birthday, I had moved back into a shared flat, and moved out of Notting Hill despite my parents’ (and family friends’) protests and became a south Londoner.

I had joined an entrepreneur program that only confirmed that I’d found my calling and had given me a group of friends I know I’ll cherish for years and year.

I had upgraded my car, driven it 500 miles to Cornwall and back and learned that I’m actually a decent driver — and I have a thing for speed.

I had stood up in front of just under 100 people and pitched my business.

I had travelled up to my old city and visited my best friend in her new home along the way and remembered why I gave up the boy I loved with every ounce of my being 4 years ago.

I had spent 2 months in solitude with my dog during lockdown.

I had finally gotten the visa I had been working towards for the past 3 years, and despite being locked down in my own house, felt freer than I had in years.

I had mastered the recipe for an excellent Negroni and learned that an Old Fashioned is actually a difficult cocktail to make well.

I had come to terms with the expiry date on my relationship with my old flatmate and managed to do some of the best negotiating of my life to get her replaced.

I had experienced a short burst of what could have been a relationship and watched it completely fall apart moments later.

I had reconnected with an old friend.

I had lost a friendship I thought I valued which taught me that I need to redefine my boundaries.

I had lost a grandmother, and somehow managed to survive that loss.

I had started a second business.

And I had accepted that this would be the first year in 6 that I’d have to have a birthday without my parents.

In many ways, this year had been normal. Normal things had happened. I had loved and lost. I’d had some incredible conversations and some nasty arguments, I had made new friends and had fall outs with old ones, I had made some poor romantic choices — there was no other side of the coin to that, but I had learned some good lessons about myself in the process. I had had my heart broken and put back together.

Somehow despite the pandemic, despite the lockdown and how weird life looked from a few meters away, writing it down in quantified events made it very clear that it was still the same reality.

I didn’t know what the fresh 25 year old me would think if she saw the nearly 26 year old me. I didn’t know if I looked more mature, or even if I felt more mature. Not much had changed on the surface, but things had changed. Maybe more this year than in any other year of my life.

But through it all, one thing was clear; My soul still comes to life at the sound of laughter in my house. I still smile everyday waking up to a fluffy creature next to me (I mean the dog). I will always love first and think later, no matter how many times I get screwed over. And if I hold on to the small pockets of happiness that have always been there, I might be able to overpower the homesickness that I just can’t shake out of my bones.

25[+1], I’m ready for you.