Eighteen Years Later

I wrote my first blog post at 18 in a dorm room that smelled like instant ramen and bad decisions. The WiFi was terrible, the photos were blurry, and I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

Eighteen Years Later

I had big dreams and bigger hair (the early 2000s were not kind to anyone’s follicles) and this overwhelming need to document everything, as if writing it down would make it more real.

Eighteen years later, I’m writing this at 37 in the kitchen that holds our whole life.

Looking forward

The WiFi is still questionable some days (thanks, Marcus’s seventeen streaming services), but the photos are crisp and the coffee is significantly better. Sophie rolled her eyes when she walked through and saw Marcus taking my “writing photos” - apparently I’m “doing too much” according to my teenager. Theo asked if I was famous yet. Biscuit knocked over my water glass trying to photobomb.

Every version of me led to this one - the scared nursing student, the new mom who cried over everything, the woman who almost lost herself in night shifts and sippy cups, the runner who surprised herself by actually being fast.

Still the main character

All those versions were practice for this one. And this one? This one knows exactly who she is and isn’t sorry about it. 37 and still going. Still running. Still nursing. Still married to that nerd who somehow learned to take decent photos after only fifteen years of training. Still the main character of my own story.

I like this version best.