Jessie Spangler

I’ve always liked odd numbers better. They just feel more right to me (despite 24 being my favorite number, but she’s different), which hopefully is a good omen for the next year.

Birthdays, to me, have always felt like a threshold of some sort. More than just a marking of time, but another new beginning, a portal into which you duck into and come out on the other side, visibly unchanged yet something has shifted within you. The version of me that was 26 has curled up and gone to sleep, but her dreams are still mine.

It’s a day where all the past versions of me say hello, a reminder of how they make up the core of me. My 17-year-old self can’t believe she’s getting married this year, my 22-year-old self is thrilled and relieved to know I’ve found a job I love, my ten-year-old self is flipping through the memories of all the places I’ve been.

Despite getting older and all the life changes that come with each added year, I am still me, and nothing is more comforting. The writer, the reader, the dreamer—they all live on.

Being a woman in your mid to late twenties is weird and wonderful at the same time. I feel more myself than ever, even though my body is not the same it used to be and I can see the first signs of aging when I look closely at my face in the mirror. I’m not as concerned about the trajectory of my career, yet focused more than ever on becoming an author. There’s a million more things I want to do, and the decision to one day have children or not hangs over my head like a time bomb that only ticks louder with each passing year.

Each year that passes feels like uncovering a new layer of sand in an archaeologist excavation, like I’m getting closer and closer to an important truth. Every artifact discovered is a little treasure of knowledge, another piece to examine and marvel at as I continue to dig. It’s work, to keep going, but the best kind, fueled by sun and adventure and love and curiosity. You’re not quite sure what you’ll find next, but that’s the best part.