25.
Last year, I was all excited about being 25. It’s that milestone of being able
to survive a quarter of century. 25 was
the year I was supposed to be on my way to marriage, having kids, making a name
for myself in terms of career. I remember being a kid and thinking 23? Damn. That’s old, so old. At 23, I’m
going to be an adult, ready to take the world on, but 23 passed, 24 came and
went and before I knew it I am now struggling to live my number 26.
I
told myself I wouldn’t freak out. It’s just another year, another number. But
then I turned 26 and found myself a bit more lost. 26 seemed too old to be
still living at home, too old to stop having no cares in the world. 26 is only
4 years away from 30, the year I thought I would like to have kids by. I
thought I’d have more figured out. I think we all did! We are millennial – the
generation of quick impulses. Living life in the moment, figuring we’ll deal
with the consequences later.
So
we acted young. Reckless. We focused on finding our passions even if that meant
quitting things one after another. We repeatedly told ourselves that it’s fine,
we’re young. But, here I am 26. Realizing it’s time I got to be more
responsible over my own decisions. Moments spent dating one after another
without having the thoughts to settle in for a family.
I
kept telling myself. 26 is just a number. I can still hold onto my youth. But I
know I’m wrong, and on the quietest of nights, I hear the inner, logical me
saying, Ying, you’re 26. You’re not a kid anymore. It’s time to stop searching and
come with a conclusion already.