24
Today is my 24th birthday, and it's likely my last factorial age (4! — if by some miracle I make it to 120, I’ll update this page, assuming it still exists). It’s been one year since I moved to New York City, five years since I could order drinks at a bar (thank you, Champaign IL), and 24 years since my twin sister and I made our early debut into the world. Time feels like it’s accelerating, something I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to. My body reminds me that I’m no longer invincible — a herniated disc in my lower back, a few new dental fillings, and hangovers that hit harder than ever. These days, I find myself focusing more on my health, both physical and mental. By the time I’m 30, I’d like to know who I really am: what I love, what rituals bring me peace, and which friendships will stand the test of time.
And yet, as I sit here, I can’t help but worry that the coffee is already getting cold.
I used to think life would slow down at some point, that there’d be space to savor moments instead of rushing through them. But instead, it feels like everything is speeding up, like I’m constantly racing to catch up. I wonder if that’s just part of growing older, or if it’s the city — the relentless pace of New York pulling me along. Here, time bends. You’re either sprinting to keep up, or watching it slip by too quickly to grasp. It’s thrilling, yes, but exhausting too. And I can’t help but wonder if the balance I’m searching for is hidden somewhere in the stillness that I never quite find.
As I sit in my usual coffee shop, my latte slowly cools, and it hits me that everything else around me, currently in its perfect state, will eventually turn cold as well (thank you, thermodynamics). As I age, I’m seeing how fragile it all is. Friends I rely on now will drift, my parents won’t always be here (a terrible truth I will never fully accept), and the stability I’ve built will inevitably shift. Life speeds up, and the things that feel unchangeable are quietly slipping away. I keep imagining that one day I’ll feel settled, that I’ll know who I am and where I’m going. But the truth is, certainty is fleeting. Everything will change. The coffee will grow cold.
But maybe that’s exactly why I need to savor it now. Instead of waiting for life to feel complete, I need to embrace these moments: the warmth of conversations, the comfort of family, the simple rituals that anchor me. Loss is inevitable, but so is the richness of what I have now. The coffee is still warm, still good. And maybe, instead of worrying when it will cool, I should drink it — now — while it’s just right, before it becomes a memory.