During the nine years I got to experience my Grandmother Bobbie on this earth, she flooded me with cards and notes full of love, encouragement, and a bit of enlightenment. About two weeks before I left for Australia, my stepmom plopped an old card down in front of me on the kitchen table. I recognized the fluid cursive writing on the front instantly.
I am a lion[ess]; a hunter. What good would it do me to stay in close parameters? How well can I hone my innate skills if I don’t test my limits and boundaries? As any successful predator has, I have covered a lot of ground and slain along the way.
Lately, I’ve been laying low, lurking in the meadow, observing my surroundings and options. There is plenty of opportunity to jump at what is right in front of me, but I’ve put in too much time and effort to settle for the easy prey.
I turned twenty-four two months ago. While you may be thinking that “quarter-life” comes at age twenty-five, I’m going to use the argument that most folks don’t live to be one hundred and it’s close enough. I’ve heard people talking about said “quarter-life crisis,” but it has really started resonating over the past few months.