Twenty-seven.

A couple of years ago, I decided that 27 will be my best year.

It wasn’t a decision as much as it was a strong gut feeling. And my gut is almost always right.

It’ll be my best year assuming I’ll:

  • be in a good place in my career;
  • have sufficient funds in my bank account;
  • have a more concrete understanding of my identity;
  • have my own place;
  • have traveled around the world;
  • have found ‘the One’.

Okay, so the last point was a bit of a stretch, but at least, I would hope that at that point, I would’ve gone through a few “the Ones”. I’ve never been in a relationship and the thought of being in one is absolutely terrifying to me – the vulnerability, the emotional commitment, the dual dependency, the compromises… But enough about my baggage.

I’ve reached fewer social milestones compared to other people of my age (I’m a product of Asian suburban parenting). In terms of my career, I’d say I’m more ahead than most people my age (although this could change very soon) and it’s been fueled by a great deal of compensating – working harder to avoid realizing my own sexualiy, working harder as a way to distract myself from these social milestones…

So if I want 27 to really be the best year, I can’t leave it up to fate. I have a lot of catching up to do in the four years between now and then. I owe myself a lot of “yes”es.

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