In a conversation with a friend on facials and skincare, treating stretch marks came up. Not that anyone else would see mine, but that is the point precisely — they are there, they are both flaws and distractions on an otherwise perfect body, they show me what I have been going through physically. And they are part of me.

The essence of stretch marks is so vividly real in my experience of life these few months (and largely in my twenties so far). I enter spaces that feel like only mature, manicured, matronly women belong in; I am invited to opportunities I am not prepared for or thought I would be part of at this stage of life; I dive into activities aching to create at the level of my standards my skills would take years to catch up to.

The stretching of abilities and experiences is leaving its mark everywhere — my lifestyle, finances, mindsets, defaults.

It hurts being in this season.

But the pain is good. I like to sit in aesthetic cafes, ideally on a rainy day with a mug of London Fog, and write poetry by hand. Some days it is performative; most days it tends not to be. I find nostalgia and sentimentality good friends of whimsical literary pursuits — but nothing comes close to the inspiration that suffering (no matter in first, second, or third person) offers.

A sister of mine typed something profound to me yesterday: “Maybe we are not meant to be happy.” We would not want to skip out on some decent suffering, would we now.

So I steep my soul in the twenties-angst of trying-to-be-while-almost-being, shrug off as much of the existential guilt of not being who I “should be” as I could, and arrange yet another intellectual duel with Time in pursuit of questions and temporary answers.

A climber friend tells me holds appear as you climb — but he neglects to remind me reaching for them means both risk by leaving the current hold, and faith in that hold meaning something solid enough to hold on. Just seeing it does not help much — sight solves the question of where to go, but not much more.

Well, stretch on for now, I suppose. Perhaps my fingers would find something to hold on to, or perhaps I would grow wings as I fall. Either way, who cares about a few stretch marks?