Twenty-Three

Today I’m twenty-three. The last birthday before I become someone’s wife next month. When I was eighteen, I thought I’d have it all figured out by now. I thought twenty-three would mean career certainty, financial stability, maybe a cute apartment with matching furniture. I definitely didn’t think it would mean engagement ring on my finger while bouncing a fifteen-month-old on my lap.

Twenty-Three

But here’s the thing – it’s better than what I imagined. Messier, scarier, more overwhelming, but better. Sophie handed me a soggy, half-chewed cracker today and said “mama” like she was presenting me with diamonds. Marcus looked at me like I hung the moon, even though I haven’t showered and there’s spit-up on this sweater. This life chose me, and somehow I chose it back.

Twenty-three feels like standing at the edge of everything. Next month I’ll be Mrs. Hartwell. This time next year, who knows? But right now, in this moment, with my daughter’s sticky fingers in my hair and my fiancé making dinner behind me, I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Even if I have no idea what I’m doing.