Twenty Five.

I’m a quarter of a century. Which is ridiculous, because I know nothing. Still pretty much a child in the grand scheme of things. But it’s come around so quickly and I’m surprised I’m not still a teenager.

But no. I’m now two weeks into my mid twenties. And I still feel like a baby.

Just before Christmas I went back to my Primary School to watch their Christmas production of Mary Poppins, in which, fourteen years ago, I played Mrs Banks. FOURTEEN YEARS. That’s more than a decade! Since then I’ve done my whole Secondary School and college experience. I’ve had a boyfriend and broke up with him. I’ve moved country, and moved back again. I’ve moved city, and moved back again. I’ve had a boyfriend who became my fiancee who is now my husband. I’ve been pregnant and had a baby. A baby who is now half a year old. 

But inside, I still feel like that 10 year old playing Mrs Banks in her Year Six play. 

So when did I actually become a grown up?

Was it when I started eating vegetables voluntarily even though they weren’t on a pizza? Was it when I was so excited to get into my clean pyjamas and have an early night? Was it when I had to start thinking about contraception and tampons or when I realised I was a kid who was raising a kid?

I still eat chocolate with zero self control. I still watch Disney movies on a regular basis. I still only pretend to watch the news when really I’m waiting for FRIENDS to come on. But apparently, I am an adult. (I mean, they let me drive and buy wine, like, whenever I want…)

I guess I’m scared that life goes by too quick. I’m scared I’m not ‘living in the moment’ enough and that I’m wasting my short, precious time. I’m scared I haven’t been to enough countries or ticked off enough of my bucket list. I haven’t watched enough films and been to enough concerts. But, reality is, I’m only 25. And all I can do now is pop on a face mask, order a pizza, and spend as much time as I can loving my friends, family and baby girl as intentionally and as much as possible.