A Letter to Twenty Four

 A Letter to 24 

Dear 24, 

I turned 25 on the 22nd September 2023. I’ve reached a quarter of a century. My life looks nothing like I ever thought it would, although I probably never really thought that much about it. I’ve always been more concerned with getting through everything going on around me, that I haven’t always focused on the horizon. I’m not saying that’s either good or bad, just a fact. 

Twenty four was tough. Really tough. There were joyous occasions and laughter and happiness and all of that, of course. But twenty four tested me. Pushed me out of my comfort zone. Emotionally. This last year has prodded, poked, shoved me. I’ve come through it. 

A new era has begun. But that doesn’t mean I want to forget what happened in 24. 

I turned 24 in Westbury, whilst on a company trip away. I sat in a large living room, helped compile data in sheets and graphs, had just received news of a raise, and a promotion, and it felt exciting to begin 24 this way. Ashton, who has become one of my closest friends, baked me a cake, and the team sang to me while I stood beside a table tennis table and tried not to get teary-eyed in front of my colleagues. 

I started twenty four single. The most single I’ve been for years, honestly. No one really on the horizon, but a shift within that felt ready to feel. Ready to let someone in, get to know someone. Twenty four put me through the ringer romantically. Physically. All the feelings that come along with letting someone in, trying to be let in, trying to navigate what the hell we do to feel companionship, pleasure, love?, excitement. 

I met someone, I fell, I convinced myself I’d be fine. I convinced myself they’d lean in too. I convinced myself I could enjoy it for what they could give me. I convinced myself that being hurt would be worth it for the time we could have together. I think it was. I think it wasn’t. I still don’t know how to feel. But for a while I know I thought they were the best part of my life. I thought I needed to be better to be with them, needed to be more of one thing, less of another, to be good enough for them, to be chosen by them. 

This went on for 5 months. Waiting for their message, enjoying the feeling I got when they replied. Feeling fuelled by making them laugh, when they’d say something sweet, when we’d watch films on the sofa upstairs. Feeding myself on their attention, going hungry after a few days without seeing them, supplemented by talking, texting, every day back and forth over the phone. 

I’m not saying they did bad, not completely. I believe they felt something for me, felt a connection, enjoyed it, never set out to hurt me. I’m not saying they didn’t feel any hurt in the process. But twenty four had me let it happen. I’m still not sure if I wish I’d done it differently. If I’d kept some of the indifference I’d had at 23, if I’d walked away as soon as I saw the inevitable, if I’d told them how I felt sooner. I’m not sure I’d change a thing. 

The months that followed that inescapable day when they stopped it, when they cut me off from that supply, were hard. Were dark. A lot of twenty four was spent in the shadows. Wallowing. Not necessarily about them, not always. But I let myself be convinced I wasn’t worth choosing. 

So I wasn’t worth choosing myself. My routines fell into disarray. Work became harder. Life took more and more energy to continue living. It was getting difficult to carry on like I had been. To make the most out of every weekend, every week, every moment. I’m only grateful I’m writing this from a place that’s different - I’m doing better, I’m taking back control of looking after me. But for a long time I wasn’t. It wasn’t easy. 

Uncomfortable. All the time. 

I tried again. Let myself lean in to someone new, trying to use them to patch my heart, lick my wounds. Too good to be true, and naturally it fell to the wayside. Once again it became clear it was too difficult for someone to pick me. To make the effort. To let me in. 

The highs were dotted between, of course. I visited Edinburgh with work, enjoyed the christmas air and the cool wind. Went to Brighton to celebrate Becca’s 24. Swam in the sea, watched my best friend celebrate herself, feel beautiful, loved, make me tofu salad. Natalia’s home feels like a second home, London becomes more familiar with each visit, with pit stops in Maida Vale to welcome me with warm energy and love. A sunny weekend in Leeds made me feel hopeful about life, made me fall in love with a new best friend. A warm glow spreading across my shoulders.

Bel and I intertwine harmoniously in our little home, Frodo bounces between us, purring and screeching for more food. The little flat is home. It’s my safe haven, my bed a consolation against the world, the living room a place to cry and laugh and connect. I am so lucky to live where I live, to live with my best friend who feels like family. Lucky to go out with her, try new foods, laugh and cry and feel seen and understood without even trying. 

But the year hasn’t been all lovely. 

We lost Ruby in July. My best friend, gone. She became ill, and quickly it was clear we couldn’t help her. She wasn’t herself. She wasn’t the gorgeous girl full of energy, greeting you at the door with a tail wagging and a fluffy toy between her teeth. I can still feel the touch of her fur as I imagine patting her on the head, running my hand down her back, scratching above her tail. I can still picture the sound of her nails on the kitchen floor, the noise her ball made as it bounced on the grass. The way she would sigh once she was comfortable, the noise of her mid-yawn, the little woofs in her sleep. The way she would wriggle under your hand and find the perfect spot for a scratch. The way she would wait to come upstairs to sleep at the foot of my bed. The way she smelt, the way her ears felt in your hands, the sound of her kibble hitting the bowl. The way she would sit and put her paw up when I cut cucumber. The lift of her front paw while she waited for the ball to be thrown. Countless orange balls on a rope lost in fields. I will never forget how much love she had. Visits to Bristol with me - she went to the Eastfield, Cambridge Arms, Beehive, walks on the Downs, Horfield Common, Abbots Pool. I have never felt a pain like it. I miss her everyday. I’ll never stop loving her. 

In August, I got ill for the first of three bouts of a skin infection. On a week away to Bath with Fifi, my skin got worse and worse and she drove me to hospital where antibiotics saved me for a week. I spent a week in bed, wallowing and limping around. Took time off work, felt completely exhausted and burnt out. 

It relented, and I eased back into life. I went to a party, read a birth chart, allowed myself to flirt, be flirted with. Let my top hang low while I played pool, leant into the facade of intimacy with someone new. Enjoyed intelligent conversation, laughed, connected. It felt good. It felt easy. We spent all day the next day together, playing songs from films, quizzing each other. Held hands while we walked down the street.

I FINALLY took some time to myself, spent some actual money on myself. As the uselessness of the summer took its toll, and booked flights to Mallorca. My first actual holiday in over 3 years. 

I danced with my family on the day my cousin got married, enjoyed feeling beautiful (though on a second course of antibiotics and with a very hard-to-disguise plethora of plasters on my toes). Celebrated a joyous occasion, laughed with my sister and Harry, loved the feeling of being around them. Loved witnessing their love. Celebrated a new love, between Sam and Emma. 

I boarded a plane, round 2 of antibiotics still in hand, and navigated the length of Mallorca on my own. The North of the island, an area I hadn’t been, finally taking some time for myself. I was greeted by a hobbling Natalia, Alicia talking into her monitor. I reclined on a balcony and soaked up the time it had taken for me to get there. 

I spent days in the sun, in comfort. I relaxed, rested, read. I finished 3 books in 5 days. I chatted to Natalia. I laughed as I caught up with my best friend, as we chatted about the worlds we live in, the lives we lead. Sometimes together, sometimes apart. Not that I ever forget, but it reminded me why I fell in love with her when we met. 

The most relaxing day I can possibly remember having in my 24 (at the time) years of life was the 26 August 2023. We set up camp on Alcudia beach. I did none of the planning, the driving, the admin. I was transported to the beach and told to sit. Microdosing being out of control. I read Burnt Sugar and reclined in the sun. I swam in the sea when I got too hot, and dried off by laying on a towel under the blue sky. I listened to Tash Sultana and sent pictures back to England. I felt so relaxed and in my own world, I felt like I was asleep. I existed in a daze of pure tranquility. It was glorious. 

The return to Bristol was less harmonious. After a storm took up the skies of Spain and Mallorca, flights were cancelled and Palma airport became more and more full of humans taking up space, making noise, cluttering the walkways. I was trapped. Luckily, Nat’s auntie and cousin had arrived the evening before, so I was able to gatecrash their holiday and receive their generous hospitality for the few days I had to wait for a new flight. Nadia fretted around me and Marcus drove me across the island for my second attempt to get home. After a flight to Edinburgh, Mum and Dad picking me up, stuffing me into a bundled back seat and supplying sandwiches and hot drinks, I arrived back home.  

Just when I thought the seemingly endless bad luck was over, a week after returning home, I noticed another blister (another fucking god damn blister!!!!!!!!!!) and took myself immediately to the walk in centre for urgent care. Not another round of antibiotics surely! Instead, the doctor was far too concerned with why my infection kept coming back, perhaps the fact I’ve been eating humous and bagels as my main meal for half a year? Perhaps the smoking and the drinking and the terrible mental health? Perhaps the fact I’m stressed and anxious all of the time and don’t do anything to help it? Perhaps the non-stop Doing Things that governs my life? 

Thus, the beginning of September was punctuated by a visit to acute injuries, an overnight stay, 4 days of IV antibiotics and feeling sick and limping around due to the cellulitis in my leg and the blisters on my feet. Armed with a cornucopia of medicines, both topical and oral, I appeared to kick the nasty bugger. Finally! 

It sounds strange but that was just the wrecking ball up the ass I needed to kick me out of my rut. I’ve started giving a shit about myself again. I’ve started to look after myself, first and foremost, before anybody else. I’ve started cooking, proper meals, spending my money at the supermarket, not on pints. I’ve stopped drinking, save for a pint here or there, so that I can wake up without the hangover, without the tiredness, without wanting to go straight back to sleep. I’ve stopped smoking, I’ve started going to the gym. I go for a walk every lunchtime.

I’ve started to romanticise my life again, to take stock of each moment that matters. Realised I’m so lucky to live where I live, to survive the way I do, to go to the theatre, to a coffee shop, to get trains to new places. To read the books I do, to watch films and care about the ending, to laugh at a tv show, to cry at a tiktok. I’m making sure I realise how fucking awesome I am. Not only what I get to do, but the person I have become. All the discomfort and pain and hurt and all the lessons, all fuel who I am. They all stoke the fire within me, they all contribute to the kind, loving, funny, intelligent, outspoken, intellectual, literary, creative, nerdy person I am. 

This letter to 24 has highlighted to me just how impressive I am. I’m so in awe of the way I have been able to hang on, to adapt, to overcome, to take most of this shit in my stride. Sure, I let myself down a lot this year, I didn’t show up for myself a lot of times, but I’m not going to hold that against myself. I did my best. 

Sometimes you can’t tell how bad the storm was until the sky clears.  

Here’s to twenty five. 

Yours, with love, 

Elle