Twenty.

Look at me, sitting in my dorm room, taking what may have been one of my first selfies. Twenty was the year I declared I’d be married by 25. God was probably weak off that, I can’t help but laugh at my 20-year-old self when I think about that now. I was in the first semester of my junior year at Hampton when I bid my teens goodbye. My birthday that year kicked off a series of extra birthday celebrations that included weekend itineraries, color schemes and months of planning. A short time before my birthday, I gained a group of friends who I’d known my entire college experience, but just hadn’t been close with. We literally became inseparable overnight. I had no idea at the time, but those friendships would be tested (and test me) in ways I never could have imagined. More on them one day.

At 20 I remember being young. I was carefree and happy. My grades were great, I wasn’t overly self-consciuous like I’d been in the past; things just felt right. If I had to give advice to my 20-year-old self, I’d tell that lil’ baby to savor those precious carefree moments, but also begin to think more seriously about your future. Twenty was a transition year for me, I wasn’t a child anymore, but I wasn’t a woman yet either. I had a few more lessons to learn before I could call myself that.