Hannah, your words are my fight song. Thank you.
“What were you like at 20?”
Her text came through this morning in the middle of my writing hours.
I had to pause. Walk away from the computer. Find a space on the floor where, if you sit in just the right spot, the sunlight will flood through the window and cover your knees like a soft, thin blanket.
I honestly haven’t given much thought to who I was at 20 years old. That was seven years ago. I was a junior in college.
I responded to her text with a bunch of scenarios:
When I was 20, I had my first internship with the city’s newspaper. I wore high heels and strut around the campus center like I was really important— an absolute boss.
When I was 20, I was enamored with a boy who would read me Walt Whitman poetry at 2am and then take me for walks…
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