Twenty something.

“I am unwritten;
Can’t read my mind, I’m undefined.
I’m just beginning;
The pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned.”

“Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield

As I entered my twenties, life began to take on a new shape. Paths with friends started to diverge—each of us reinventing ourselves in unique ways, leaving behind what no longer served us and making our own dreams a reality.

Mistakes were detours, not dead ends.

It was an exhilarating and formative time of choice and chance, as possibilities stretched out in all directions and responsibility danced with independence. Once again, I stood at the edge of a vast, open field—but this time, instead of bullies, there were endless paths winding before me. I felt weightless, as if I had all the time in the world to explore, stumble, and start again.

Finally reaching the age of majority—having never looked old enough to experience underage antics with my friends—I filled my evenings with the vibrancy of “being of age,” figuring out who I was outside the labels of family or school.

Shaping and testing the boundaries.

But amid the excitement of independence, one thought remained: what path would I choose? I could attend a post-secondary institution, dive into a steady job, start building a foundation piece by piece—or throw caution to the wind and chase my dreams wherever they might lead. Following the typical zeitgeist of one’s twenties meant taking leaps, embracing failure as part of the process, and gaining experiences that shape you. It was a time to grow boldly, to learn who you are through the risks you take and the mistakes you make. That journey held the promise of freedom and growth—a terrifyingly exciting chapter that could define the rest of your life.

Setting a path.

As I waffled between youthful ideals and emerging adult responsibilities, each choice seemed to carry its own promises and risks—risks I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to take. While many girls of my generation grew up dreaming of their perfect wedding day, I was laser-focused on creating a home of my own. From a young age, I had carefully gathered everything I’d need to make it solo—from cutlery and dishes to a fridge, stove, and furniture. Come to think of it, I even had a clothes dryer! The contents of my hope chest far exceeded those of most girls my age—or a normal hope chest for that matter 🙃. I had even put aside money in bonds and opened an OHOSP account, envisioning the day I’d buy my first home. I wasn’t kidding anyone. My path was already set.

Balancing tradition and change.

However, as I stood at a crossroads between tradition and change, I felt the weight of a difficult choice. Where generations before me often stepped directly into the workforce after high school, my peers were now choosing post-secondary education first. I wasn’t ready for university; that familiar shyness crept in again, quietly keeping me from taking the leap I was eager to try but unable to make on my own. At the time, the idea of jumping in and learning through real-world experience felt like a better fit. Was I missing an opportunity? Maybe. But the thought of defining my future on my terms—setting my own course—felt truer to who I was becoming. Who I needed to be.

The spirit of independence.

This sense of choice and independence wasn’t unique to me—it reflected a broader shift within our generation. While traditional family dynamics remained strong, acceptance of alternative lifestyles grew. Living common-law became widely accepted (and legally recognized), and with less urgency to marry or start families right away, we felt freer to focus on education, careers, and self-discovery. The momentum built by the women’s movement in the preceding decades—especially in my mother’s generation—had opened doors for women. Many pursued careers in fields traditionally dominated by men, stepped into leadership roles, and made dual-income households the new norm … and making ‘work-life balance’ the goal of the decade. This period laid essential groundwork for further advancements in workplace gender equality in the years to come.

And let’s not forget about the arrival of the internet—or should I say, Gopher. With its clunky interface (think MS-DOS) and painfully slow dial-up speed, we were introduced to the idea of connecting with information and others on a global scale. Suddenly, resources once confined to libraries and encyclopedias (google it) were at our fingertips. Through email and chat rooms, we could connect socially in ways that felt immediate and groundbreaking, and career paths expanded in ways we hadn’t anticipated. The possibilities felt limitless … and revolutionary!

Charting my own course.

Life in the 90s was a wonderful blend of tradition and opportunity, independence and ambition—all underpinned by a sense of optimism. It was also a time when the tension between ‘finding myself’ and ‘settling down’ felt especially strong—a period when balancing the freedom to make bold choices with the responsibility of building a future felt both exciting and daunting. I had spent my entire life following someone else’s path, and suddenly my life was wide open, ready to be whatever I wanted. I was finally on the threshold of adulthood, free to shape my life on my own terms.

While others collected experience points through the pursuits of education and adventure, I found myself drawn to a different path. It was a direction I hadn’t fully understood at the time but quickly became my north star—a guidepost shaping my choices and setting my course. Though I didn’t fully tap into the usual zeitgeist of being in my twenties and test my boundaries as freely or explore new paths as wildly as most of my peers, life would have its own way of imparting ‘character-building exercises’ through the trials of love, loss, and my own tests of resilience that awaited me. 

Until I had a foundation I could trust, stability would be my most valued pursuit.