Drop the mic & go find Sarah.
“Tell her she’s okay. Just tell her she’s okay today.” Yes, you got up, made it to work and are present today. Things can only get better from there.
“What were you like at 20?”
Her text came through this morning in the middle of my writing hours.
I had to pause. Walk away from the computer. Find a space on the floor where, if you sit in just the right spot, the sunlight will flood through the window and cover your knees like a soft, thin blanket.
I honestly haven’t given much thought to who I was at 20 years old. That was seven years ago. I was a junior in college.
I responded to her text with a bunch of scenarios:
When I was 20, I had my first internship with the city’s newspaper. I wore high heels and strut around the campus center like I was really important— an absolute boss.
When I was 20, I was enamored with a boy who would read me Walt Whitman poetry at 2am and then take me for walks…
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