Salt Air, Rusted Doors, and Starting Again

This wasn’t a planned post. I know I usually hit publish on the 30th of every month, but something found me on my recent trip to Mersing, and it gave me something to say. It reminded me why I love writing in the first place. I love it when inspiration sneaks up on me like that, unannounced but so welcome.

For a long time, I thought I had peaked at 18. I had things figured out—at least I thought I did. I excelled in everything I tried, I knew what I wanted to pursue, and I believed I had my life mapped out. Silly, really, how certain I was at that age. As if I could predict what life would hand me. But then, as it often does, life threw a curveball—and suddenly I had to restart. Rethink everything. Rebuild. 

Later, I thought maybe people peak at 25. Isn’t that the age where we’re supposed to have it all sorted? Graduate, choose our career, fall in love, maybe start a family. That’s what society tells us, right? So I waited. Waited for that part of my life to begin, like a train that never showed up. The longer I waited, the more I realized: I was measuring my life against a timeline that wasn’t mine to begin with.

Nothing was happening the way I thought it would. And that terrified me.

For a few years, I felt like I was just settling. I was living a life I didn’t choose. A degree I didn’t expect. A job I wasn’t prepared for. A path that looked nothing like my dreams. I felt like I had no energy left for the things that once mattered to me. I looked around and saw people becoming the things I thought I’d be by now. And I felt… left behind. Disoriented. Like I’d failed.

That made it even harder.

I realized I am more than the version of myself I had in mind at 18. Or even 25. I’m not stuck in one form. I have room to change, to try, to fail. I’ve failed once, and guess what? My life didn’t end. What’s the worst that could happen, really? Something not working out isn’t a failure—it’s proof that I tried. 

I’ve made a choice now. From this point on, I want to live a quiet and calm life. I want to enjoy the small things. I don’t want to share everything. Some things are just for me, and for the people who lived through those moments with me. I don’t need to perform. I don’t need an audience. This is my life. And I get to choose how I live it.

Back then, I always believed there was some sort of invisible wall standing between me and everything I wanted to do. If I wanted to start reading, I’d question: Will I have time for it? Will I even enjoy it? Will I stop halfway? If I wanted to go on a solo trip, can I do it alone? What if it goes wrong? What if I regret it? I asked so many questions that I talked myself out of doing anything at all. I buried my wants before they even had a chance to grow.

But what I didn’t think about was this: I only get this one life. I only get to be 25 once. My only shot at living this particular year, this particular version of me. How long will I keep choosing a life that revolves around nothing but going to work, coming home tired, and leaving my dreams to collect dust? I have free will. And I’m going to use it. I’ve made a vow to myself—to live my life however the hell I want. Because I only get to be here once. And if not now, then when? 

I don’t want to wait for anyone anymore. I will no longer wait for someone to come along to give me permission to start. I don’t need company to begin. I want to do things for myself, even if that means doing them scared and doing them alone. I won’t hold myself back. I’ve grown so much happier since I stopped letting others tell me what I can or cannot do. If someone thinks I’m not capable, fine. I’ll find a thousand ways to prove otherwise. Their doubt is not my burden. My life is not a group project.

I’ve come to believe that the things that scare us the most are the things that set us free. If I can conquer fear, I can conquer anything. I don’t want to stay small just because fear is loud. I want to do it anyway. Nervous. Excited. Brave. Alone. All of it.

And you know what else I’ve realized?

Life is still unfolding. My story is still being written. And there’s something beautiful about that. We haven’t met all the people we’re going to love. We haven’t lived all the days we’ll remember forever. There’s still more. So much more. 

Some people I’ve met recently reminded me of that. I never thought I could feel such a deep connection with someone I just met. But I did. It reminded me how each person we meet serves a different purpose. Some stay, some go, but all teach you something. I’ve started quietly mapping people in my life—not to control or cling—but to understand. What did this person come to show me? What mirror did they hold up? Who would’ve thought that the people I met during a two-week college program would still be in my life today—and in some ways, know me better than the ones I’ve kept around for ten years. I trusted them with things I never thought I’d say out loud. Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s the right kind of presence. But it reminded me that depth isn’t always tied to time. Sometimes, the shortest encounters hold the most meaning. And with that awareness, I also remind myself not to obsess over any connection. Not to over-romanticize things or hold on too tightly. Especially when it comes to platonic love, which can be just as tender and consuming. Letting people be what they are, and not more, has brought me peace.

The mystery of it all—that’s what makes life so worth living. That even if you feel behind, you’re not. That even if nothing looks like how you imagined, you are still exactly where you need to be.

So don’t give up on finding your purpose.

It might not look like your original plan. It might be nothing like your dreams. But that doesn’t make it any less worthy. Sometimes, it takes losing the map to finally start exploring the territory of your own soul.

Maybe the point is not to "arrive." Maybe the point is to live—as messily, honestly, and fully as you can.

And if no one’s told you this lately: You haven’t peaked. Not even close. Your life is still moving. You’re still becoming. There’s so much more waiting for you if you just keep going.

So here’s to salt air, rusted doors, and starting again.