GROW WITH SARAH GRACE

I got promoted (I know, yay!!!), but instead of popping the champagne over an expensive steak dinner, I cried into a glass of Barefoot’s finest Chardonnay for three nights straight in the bathtub.

Don’t get me wrong, the new position is great. I get to teach an age group I never knew was possible, at a more elite school downtown among the high-rises. With this change, I also get to move into a new apartment and create a more permanent life in a city I’ve always had a soft spot for. On paper, it is everything I should be celebrating.

However, a strange thing happened almost immediately after I got the news from my boss. I left my meeting thinking, “I must tell *insert name of a person whose place in my life I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out*!” Which led me to a moment I will never forget. As I walked to my car, carrying the news of a better tomorrow, I couldn’t stop thinking about something I’ve been secretly shoving down for years, fearful of addressing the problem head-on. 

My first thought was that the person I wanted to tell most probably shouldn’t be the person I wanted to tell at all. Because somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t be the first person on their call list. 

My second thought was: Why do I always do this? Why do I need my life to be witnessed before I can fully enjoy it?

And somewhere between my walk to the car and my third night crying into a glass of cheap Chardonnay, I realized there were actually two competing instincts underneath all of this.

I have spent so much of my life proving to myself that I can do it alone while (ironically) simultaneously spending just as much time caring about how everyone else sees me doing it.

Look, I won’t downplay it: I have achieved a lot since the age of 18. I’ve traveled the world (32 countries before the age of 25, thank you very much). I have had my writing published in big-name publications. I spoke at my college commencement. I’ve moved away from home more times than most of my peers have even left our hometown. I’ve lived in cities most people dream of visiting before they die – Chicago, Rome, Paris.

I truly did so much of this without even realizing I was making younger me’s dreams come true. I was becoming the person who doesn’t need permission or a partner to have an extraordinary life. 

I don’t regret it at all. I am so proud that I know I can do those things alone. But I’ve started to wonder whether proving that I can do something alone means I have to keep choosing to. Maybe I don’t want every dream to be a solo accomplishment. Maybe, after spending so much of my life proving I can carry everything myself, I’m finally allowed to admit that I’d like someone to help me carry it.

For so long, I mistook that desire for a weakness. I thought I had to prove my independence before I could ever consider building a life with someone else. In reality, I think it’s a beautiful thing to have stories to share with someone as you build a life together.

Somehow, at the same time, I have also spent so much of my life waiting for someone else to witness it. I have spent years imagining happiness as something that becomes real once someone else can see it.

The dream apartment isn’t just the apartment; it’s who I’m going to bring home to it. The promotion isn’t just the promotion; it’s who my first phone call is. The pretty dress isn’t just the dress; it’s who I hope notices. The trip isn’t just the trip; it’s the person I’ll tell about it when I get home (or the person I secretly hope sees my social media post and thinks, “Wow, look at her.”).

And this isn’t about “I am ready to fall in love and get married!” because that’s beyond cliché, and frankly, that’s not what I’m saying at all.

Honestly? I spent the first half of my twenties trying to prove that I can do all the things I dreamed of—the type of things people envy and wish they did at my age—alone. And now? I wish I had someone to share the dreams with. Before I lose you, that’s not the point of this essay. Trust me, I have a draft about my love life on this computer, but no one wants to hear about my boy troubles.

What I’m using so many words to say is that perhaps that’s what my mid-twenties are for. Not arriving at my final destination, but figuring out which parts of my life I’m building because I genuinely want them and which parts I’m building because I want someone else to look at them and think I’ve done well.

So, I’m about to turn 26 (yikes!), and my goal before 30 has changed. It used to be to travel to 30 countries—but I’ve already surpassed that, so I think I’ve officially retired that goal. The truth is, I am incredibly uncertain about a few things in my life right now. How long am I going to stay put? What will happen with my love life? What will my future look like? Will I be happy? 

But I think I am certain about one thing, or more like one thing I want to learn. I want to stop treating my life like a performance. I want to be proud of things even when there isn’t anyone there to be impressed by them. I want to buy the flowers because I like them, take the trip because I want to go, make the apartment perfect because I have to live there—not because I’m imagining who might someday walk through the door.

And I want to remember that being able to do it alone doesn’t mean I have to. I still want to be loved. I still want to be chosen. I still want someone to call when something wonderful happens. I still want someone to see the life I’m building and say, “Look what we made.” I just don’t want to spend my life waiting for that person before I let myself enjoy the life I’ve already built.

I don’t need someone to give me a life worth living. I’ve already built one. But I am finally admitting that there are parts of the life I dream about that I don’t want to experience alone. Growing up helped me realize that. And it’s okay for some dreams and perspectives to change.

Now, I am entering my 26th year (YIKES… again) trying to figure out how to simply live. Not perfectly. Not impressively. Not for an audience. Just honestly.

It’s a journey, but I’m hopeful we’ll get there by 30.