Dolce Far Niente, 1904, John William Godward
I am currently somewhere between 29 and 30 years old — somewhere between what I used to call “not yet” and what others confidently name “adulthood.” For the first time, I understand why this age is considered a threshold.
From a psychological point of view, these years feel like the first real moment when our biological existence begins to support the idea of being an adult.
From an astrological perspective, it is often described as a time of harvesting — reaping what has been sown so far. Retrospectively, I realize I started this blog right at the beginning of that phase. This space became one of Saturn’s quiet gifts; a way to keep track of who I am becoming, and who I have the potential to become.
Up until last year, I was crying, thinking I had failed to build the adulthood I imagined. I felt crushed under the weight of not being able to manage my own ordinariness.
But this year, something shifted. Not dramatically, not all at once — but enough for me to start taking pride in what I could build out of the rubble left in my hands.
When I look back, I see a pattern — as if the universe tested me theme by theme, until it made me free of almost every fear.
I grew up in a deeply loving family, and my biggest anxiety was always the idea of losing one of my parents. I thought about it so often that at some point it almost felt like I was rehearsing it. And then — it happened.
It was like the universe said to me: “Don’t waste your energy in vain. Here you go — your self-fulfilling prophecy!”
I was faced with one of my greatest fears — with pain, with emptiness. But also, unexpectedly, with a strange sense of clarity and a new kind of freedom. Life did not end. I did not collapse in the way I had imagined.
I continued. One strength added.
I have always been someone who values depth over quantity, someone who lets only a few people inside her walls. And still, those few managed to betray me.
And yet — life went on.
I used to believe in control. In plans, in cause and effect, in carefully constructed paths. I was certain that if I did not pursue an academic career, my life would fall apart.
I built a castle out of my ambitions —me and my illusory arrogance, hand-in-hand— within the walls I had built around myself. Then, one by one, those plans failed.
Again, I found myself facing the ruins. Not gently, but clearly enough. The universe reminded me that my plans are small in such a vast system. And what remained was not ruin, but space.
My tests have always been a little harsh and intense. Otherwise, a stubborn, know-it-all spaghetti would probably never have understood how things actually work.
It took me 29 years to realize that my “now” is simultaneously my past, my present, and my future.
I used to say, almost like a philosopher, that life does not owe us anything.
It took me 29 years to realize that I do not owe the world a perfectly constructed version of myself either.
My mind has never been linear. Thoughts scatter — one somewhere in the distance, another right in front of me, another just out of reach. For years, I tried to collect them, organize them, and convert them into some meaningful strings. This was my way to refine my place in this world.
Now, I am learning something else: not everything needs to be perfectly articulated to be real. There is a certain relief in allowing things to remain a little unfinished, a little unclear.
I have always believed that I could handle everything. This year, I admitted something different: just because I can, does not mean I should. Or want to.
I am learning not to go with the flow, perhaps, but at least no longer to resist it.
There was a time when I believed that if I had not achieved everything by the age of 25, life would somehow be over.
Last year, I felt crushed by my perception of reality. This year, I see things differently. Not as success or failure — but as endurance.
I feel like it is time to shine, but not with something fragile.
Not like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, but something else entirely.
Something formed under pressure, layer by layer. Something like granitic gneiss. Shaped, compressed, transformed — and still here.
I feel, for the first time, the quiet strength of building an identity.
A lot has changed, and it will keep changing. But something has settled. The more I try to understand why I exist, the more that question expands into a void I cannot fully grasp. And maybe that is not a problem to solve anymore.
Sometimes my mind feels scattered, almost absurd — like those self-help books placed next to tomato paste on supermarket shelves. And somehow, that feels accurate.
I try to embrace it all, and none of it, with the awareness that we are all just a reflected digestion of our experiences.
Good or bad, right or wrong, successful or not — this is a life.
And it is mine.
If you happen to stumble across this corner and experience similar things, or if you have adulting tips for me, I am one comment or e-mail (hello@betweeneverywhereandnowhere.com) away.
Between Everywhere and Nowhere 
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