28

On turning 28…

Twenty-eight comes quietly, without the urgency of the years before it. The future no longer stretches endless, and the past is no longer close enough to touch. You stand at a middle distance from yourself, watching the person you used to be recede while the person you are becoming remains just out of reach. The dreams you once held with certainty now feel pliable, bending under the weight of reality. Some you let go of without regret. Others linger, unfinished sentences waiting for an ending.

The world is no longer a place of absolutes. Friendships, love, ambition—things that once seemed fixed reveal themselves to be shifting, unpredictable. People drift, not in sudden, dramatic exits, but in the slow erosion of shared time. Even you are not who you thought you would be by now, and yet, there is no clear sense of loss, only the quiet understanding that change was always inevitable. You begin to accept that some answers will never arrive, and that waiting for them is its own kind of paralysis.

So you move forward, not because you know what’s ahead, but because staying still is no longer an option. You learn to live in the questions, to make choices without guarantees. You stop waiting for the moment it will all make sense. If clarity comes, it will not be sudden. It will happen the way the seasons change—imperceptibly at first, until one day, you look up and the world is different.