I like realizing that I’m a beginner at everything. I understand that what I want takes time to develop. I like knowing that I'm responsible for creating change. This is the beginning of growth.

When I was home, I met a friend for a beer, but he only had time for one. It hurt, yet I realize that it’s unreasonable to expect people to make time for me since I’ve been away for so long. Sitting and listening to his updates felt like a mandatory chore. I shared my stories and plans and I felt redundant. We struggled to avoid the cliche, to turn the conversation to the conceptual, to explore the trivialities of life in a jovial jest like we used to. Instead, we read from the script, and I hated myself for it. 

Did all my friends grow up too fast, taking on the real responsibilities of life or did I never mature, galavanting across continents in a wunderlustful blitz? I think I’m in the right, but everyone else thinks they are too.

I can’t look to what I have to do in nine months. I can’t keep looking at other people’s display of success. I think I know what makes me happy. I’m doing what I love and I’m being honest with myself, even if I’m not being honest with other people. For some reason I have to convince others that I’m doing something worthwhile. It’s worthwhile to me.