So, last Monday I turned 25. That happened. I am now a quarter of a century old.

And I know this by no means makes me ‘old’ old, but it makes me older. It makes me fall into the category of ‘adult’. Real adult. And a few things bear evidence to this – namely: I pay rent, I do my own chores, I cook my own dinner, I live in another country, I am looking for a job.

When I was 16, I recall thinking, “Gosh! 25! I’ll be old. I hope I’m engaged by then. Or at least with the man I’ll marry.”

Dear 16-year-old Davinia,
Lol.
Love,
25-year-old Davinia.

Truth is, I’m at a stage in my life where I’m still quite happy to -learn- things. Sure, I’ve achieved a fair amount of stuff during my time on this planet so far, but there’s so much more to do. I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing. And I’m not the only one who thinks this way. So many of my friends are still trying to figure out exactly what their calling is. And that’s okay – we get by. We see things and try things and figure out what suits us.

And then somebody I went to school with goes and gets married and posts photos on Facebook and I have a little meltdown. Oh damn damn damn, I start to think. That’s another one settled down. And me floating around. Should I just move back to Malta and embrace a life of marriage and kids? Pressure pressure pressure.

But then I stop being silly and I think – of course not. I need to be true to myself and that (at least for the moment) does not involve settling down. Whoever made marriage and kids the final destination for women, anyway? Why should people look at me sympathetically when I say I’m single? I’m grand with being single. Having a great time of it, actually.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is: just walk your own path. Don’t let things like numbers become markers or milestones for you. Let your experiences do that instead.