I’d run out of fingers if I had to count the number of people who told me what a shit year this was going to be. Some out of disgust for the unfortunate number ’13’ and some because their middle name is ‘miserable’. True Story.
But if I were to go back to the eve of my birthday last year and look at the year I’ve had, I would need a second to stop my mind from getting blown.
I still remember that summer night when I was surrounded by six too many cocktails, two cakes and a candle. That flame was blown with a wish, ‘This was going to be the best year, yet’.
I wished for my 23rd year to kick some serious balls around town, and for the world to watch me do that.
And boy… it did.
Things that have happened to me in 2013 are exactly what dreams are made of. I don’t want to brag or jinx it, but from travelling to Bali on a solo spiritual holiday to getting published in Forbes (!); from writing mega-personal details about my life for a huge publishing house to swimming with sharks without a cage… it’s been a little mental. This year has rocked my world, more than what I had imagined on that balmy night of November 16.
But life has also not been all fluff and bubblegum. I’ve had hell break loose on me, in more instances than one; falling outs with childhood friendships, mending broken ties with cousins, losing a dear family member without getting to say goodbye, crying myself to sleep… y’know, everything out of a sad Hollywood plot.
Amidst all that sad undervaluing of self, I realised that this thing called ‘life’ is a smartarse. She gives you a serious dose of wins where you’re so happy that it’s incomprehensible and then she drops you from 15,000 ft with a smirk. You either succumb or land. My faith from humanity, spirituality and life crumbled in all those circumstances, but thanks to my good friend tequila, I came out of it. I wrapped my shit up, and faced ‘life’ the way she wanted me to face her.
People always ask me, “what are you going to do in x number of years” and I always say, “how do you know I’ll live x number of years?” Last year, I didn’t know that I was going to celebrate my 24th birthday in London – a city I had dreamt to live and work in when I was a chubby 15-year old. Oh teenage life! Fast-forward nine years, and I’m here. I bid adieu to my glorious life in Sydney in September – the city that made me the person I am today – and have landed in the hub of Europe.
I am scared. I am intimidated. I am incredibly, incredibly nervous about what the next 365 will bring. Will I live my dream? Will I let this city wrap me in its arms? Will I be rejected, again? Or will I finally be able to love?
Who the hell knows…
But gosh, isn’t that the rush in being ‘alive’? It’s better than any drug, I tell you that! That feeling of being indecisive and not knowing when you want to jump out of a plane. That unknowing shiver of who might walk into your life and change its architecture for you… ah, so addictive!
I’m a week away from my 24th birthday, and the only aspect of it that’s predictable right now is that I’m getting a year older and will celebrate it by eating cake for every meal on the day. Rest I’m leaving up to fate and a shit ton of hard work. If I survive another year, watch me shave its balls off and show my 23-year old self what ‘living’ really feels like.
Happy Birthday, sucker!