notes on being 23

when everything and nothing is going well

I’m known for my classic red nails. There’s something special about painting them each week and knowing they look so chic and so cool.

Last weekend, I saw Madison Beer at the O2 arena in London. She sung my favourite song ‘bad enough’. I painted my nails silver and red in an alternating fashion and the silver irked me more than I care to explain. When I got home past midnight, I scrubbed off the polish with acetone and threw away the bottle.

Who knew change could affect me that much?!

All I could think about that night was how wildly different the vibe was to when I was there last March, fresh out of a relationship, heartbroken but pretty-much okay. A lot has changed in my life since then. I’ve dated. I’ve met some pretty fun people. I’ve walked away from people that are…totally uncool with their feelings. What is it with my generation and our ability to be both honest yet such closed books?! It’s this incessant trend of being nonchalant and seemingly uncaring that makes zero sense to me. I see it with my friends too; this need to seem so put together and sure of what they want when we all know each and every one of us is as clueless as the film.

We’re in our twenties, after all. We’ll figure it out eventually.

True to the book, I’m a Scorpio—turned 23 last November. I had the most beautiful birthday brunch with some friends and ended the night crying tears of joy into my journal because THIS is my life and I have everything I’ve ever wanted. But writing this now seven months later and I feel like things are far from perfect. I guess it’s not perfection we should be striving for, but we’re all guilty of sometimes wishing and daydreaming and hoping that love knocks at our door or that we wake up and in true ‘13 going on 30’ fashion, we’re living the lives of our dreams, glitter and all. In my case, I want to be in the throes of writing a novel, going to different cafe’s everyday and ordering extravagant iced matcha lattes (ok, maybe my dream life isn’t that far out of reach).

I write poems weekly, sometimes about love, sometimes about friendship, and sometimes about flowers. There’s nothing scarier than having all my feelings swirling around in my brain for days. I must write. The catharsis is healing. Though I mostly write for documentation purposes. I want to read back on these moments in decades to come, sat by my coffee ring stained desk, tulips in the corner, a faint hum of conversation in the next room. I could write for hours about why we should continue to reminisce because eventually we may forget everything and everyone. I love when my parents get nostalgic and share stories and glimpses of their past. Makes me feel in awe of storytelling, of history, of continuing to write and share for as long as I’m alive.

On that note, I shared some of my writing with a new friend of mine in April and it led to a profound conversation. It was spring and I was a little all-consumed by yet another guy, by my book, by the friendships that have changed my life for the better. Perhaps there’s something freeing and honest and captivating about sharing my work with someone who doesn’t really know me all that well. I truly believe we meet people at the right moment, and in this particular moment, I really needed to get out of my head and have an honest conversation about art and creativity and writing. I think friendships thrive better when there’s less pressure. When neither person is holding back and there’s a pool of honesty and trust floating between us. But it takes time to get there and expecting that depth instantly is a little bit silly. Although it can happen. I had that with someone I used to know— it was fleeting, but beautiful nonetheless. Friendships are super important to me and I always strive to prioritise that in my life. What we need more of in life are friends who are supportive and uplifting and I feel so grateful to have that. A reminder: you really should be telling your friends how much you appreciate them!!!

One thing I wish I could do is get coffee with the version of me at age 20.

I was living in my second-year university house, overthinking about everyone and everything, yearning for love and the sweetness of a relationship. I had two boyfriends that year, but I wasn’t happy and I was incredibly scared of what my life was unfolding to be. I put romantic love and relationships and guys too high on the pedestal from the ages of 20-22. I thought it would cure my boredom but making art and making more friends did. I wouldn’t change a thing, but I would tell her that dating is the last thing she should focus on.

Love is a weird feeling. It lingers for a while. And yet still it’s not enough. It’s all consuming. I miss what it feels like to be in love.

When it ends, what do we do with the overflow of memories?

If we push them to the back of our minds, eventually they’ll seep out through tears months or years later when we’re sat in a cafe working on an assignment for class. Or they’ll reappear in a dream, one we both want to wake up from and stay in forever. There’s no cordial goodbye, despite just how good of terms it ended. What happens to the last kiss, the last walk back together to the train station, the last ‘I love you’? I don’t really think about my exes but when I do, sometimes it hits me like a ton of bricks that I'll never be able to live those moments again. But maybe there’s something beautiful and striking about it being a ‘once in a lifetime’ feeling. 

After all, you never experience the same love twice.

And after all, it’s important to hold the people you love close. We are here right now. My words etched on your screen. My brain working overtime to get this written because it’s midnight now. Everything will be okay because all we can do is give ourselves grace for what we didn’t know back then and continue to learn a gazillion lessons over because yes, we are human beings just…trying.

— Amy

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About Amy’s Substack

In this publication, you’ll find…

• personal essays on love and creativity

• poetry from the heart

• musings from the month