I’m a fraud.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it all wrong.

If, five/ten/fifteen years from now, I’ll look back on every single thing I did in my twenties and think, “Oh, honey.”

Did I take the wrong path? Pursue the wrong friendships? Rent the wrong apartment? Cut the bangs when I should have left well enough alone?

Clearly some of these things are more important than the others.

My dad refers to this fear another way: Sometimes I wonder if I’m a fraud.

It’s not an outlandish notion. I already look back on 21-year-old Justine and 24-year-old Justine and wonder what she was thinking. Who that girl was.

How she could be so certain.

I think (in my infinite, 26-and-a-half-year-old wisdom) that maybe this sensation is how you really know you’re growing up. It doesn’t have anything to do with the size of your 401K or whether or not you own your home or how many gray hairs you plucked out of your skull in the mirror this morning.

It’s the crushing realization that you don’t know anything and you’re not in control. It’s finally understanding (and worse, relating) to people twice your age thinking that youth is wasted on the young.

Anyone who has read my blog in the last month is probably picking up on this theme of existential blog posts. We’re getting kind of heavy on you over here. Apologies. The weird part is, I’m so happy these days. So happy, that maybe I’m looking for problems to solve. That wouldn’t be so unlike me. (See also: I’m terrible at contentment.)

I’m going to move away from this line of posting for a while, I think. But I guess I just want y’all to know it’s not all scones and top knots over here.

Sometimes it’s just me. Figuring it out.

Sigh

{photo by figment art photography}

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