Messy

My room. My closet. My car. My hair. My brain.

Every once in a while, all of the above.

A mess.

Your twenties can feel disastrous. Like downward spiraling mixed with euphoria mixed with McDonald’s fries. We try to play it cool. The weekly I’m officially gonna get it together declaration strikes again, more boldly, more painfully, more dramatically. On social media and girl dates we put on filtered facades and swear we are doing so well, seriously so, so well guys. And for the most part we are. Most of us have a tremendous amount of privilege that we walk around with every single day and it’s important to recognize this. But there are moments when shit hits the fan and we immediately go running to the curtains to make sure that no one else can see our war zones of a life.

I’m learning to like the mess. We are in disarray, a shifting chaos that is learning, improving and changing. Growing is messy stuff. Ask any mother of a toddler. There’s spaghetti on the walls and yogurt in their hair and something questionable on their shirt. And it’s adorable. How many first birthday pictures are memorable because the kid ate her cake without smashing it in her face?

Your mess is your story, your mess is your narrative, your mess is the thing that keeps it interesting. We don’t read books or see movies for smooth, seamless, perfect, angelic lack of plots. A good plot looks a lot like a disaster and smells a lot like explosives.

Do it, screw it up, do it again, maybe screw it up worse. Watch yourself get better.

Look around at your mess. Don’t compare your mess to anyone else’s mess.

Appreciate your own mess.

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