In exactly one month, I will turn eighteen. I will become a legal adult. I will be able to vote, even (legally) get married.
When I was little, I always imagined that as a young adult woman I would walk the halls in college wearing classy clothing and being clever, friendly, and indestructible. I would know exactly who I was and who I wanted to become. The future would be full of promise, right at my fingertips.
I carried this incredibly naive image with me for years. At fourteen, fifteen, and even sixteen, I had this image that when I was eighteen, I would transform into someone who had it all together, who knew who she was and who she wanted to become.
To tell the truth, this is what I’ve really become:
More myself, and less an image I wanted to be. More determined to follow God, and less swayed by the crowd. Far from perfect, but no longer self-condemning. More content to live in the present, instead of wishing for the future.
Less planning, more peace.
If I went back and talked with fourteen-year-old me and told her where she would be, it wouldn’t be where she expected.
But I don’t think she would be disappointed.