I misunderstood adulthood. I thought it was a destination that, once reached, meant all my shit would be irrevocably together. But, seemingly, there’s no magical destination. And having one’s shit together is apparently not a linear process, not a level to be unlocked. Instead, it’s more cyclical, with some ebbs and flows. And seemingly random hurricanes of chaotic circumstances thrown in to keep things fresh. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time learning the same lessons over and over again. But I’ve also had moments of deep, almost mystical understanding suddenly dawn on me. Out of nowhere. Sometimes I’m balanced, unshakably wise. Other times, I’m scrambling to remember where I put my glasses and what’s left of the shreds of my sanity. Adulthood is actually endless opportunities to keep creating and recreating myself in wild, surprising ways I couldn’t have even imagined existed–more rewarding than having my shit perpetually together.