I Thought I’d Be Married by Now
I thought I’d be married by now.
When I was in my early twenties imagining what the next 5 or 10 years of my life would look like, I always thought I’d by married by 27 and have my first kid by 30.
I don’t know where I got these number from. For someone who’s pretty calculated in her decision making and planning there really was no basis for them. They just… felt right.
This is not where I imagined I’d be.
Most days I’m thankful (thankful I didn’t say yes the wrong relationship, for one) but some days I feel sad. Lonely.
Some days I feel sorry for myself.
I don’t like those days. I don’t like admitting I have those days. I don’t like that photos of a high school friends wedding on Instagram can trigger them. But today, today is one of those days.
I listen to interviews with creative entrepreneurs and they’re always asked how they got started. How’d they get the courage to start their photography business or podcast or show their paintings?
“Well, it was actually my wife who finally convinced me to do it.”
“It was my husband who said you know what you’d be great at?”
I want that.
I hear these stories and I can’t help but think that’s how it happens. Someone comes along and picks out your shiny bits. Sure, you do the work, but they cheer you on. They support you.
Or maybe (probably, definitely) I’m actively looking for those stories and ignoring the others. Confirmation bias.
Maybe (probably, definitely) I’m looking for an excuse.
Photo of a studio window on a random side street in Leslieville, Toronto. Because maybe (probably, definitely) we’ve got to rethink how we measure time.