Letter to Twenty Seven

 Dear 27,

You’ve been a long year, even though you’ve been the same length of time as any other year. 365 days of 27. You were long, hard, arduous, amazing, inviting, awakening, silly, sad, tough, beautiful, electric, monotonous, and all the rest.

27, you allowed me to play with life a little. What it has to look like, what I get to control, or mess with, or forget. You let me find parts of myself I didn’t know I had lost, and look for new parts to add in to all of this imperfection. 

You showed me I can become more comfortable with guilt - hold its hand and show it empathy and thank it. It’s looking out for me, but it doesn’t need to eat at my edges. I’ve tried to take it in my stride, carry it differently, let it transform a little, wear down its sharper edges. 

27, you’ve been a year of metamorphosis, change, growth. I’ve changed the relationship with my parents, tried to see them differently, less abrasive, or more so. I’ve examined my relationship to them, them now, and them then. I had dinner with my Dad in September, had very few phonecalls, gave them space to think what they think, gave myself the room to let them. I’ve left silences where previously there were half-truths, calculated information. I’ve pulled away and they’ve not followed. I’ve set myself a little free-er.

You changed where I call home, where I’ve found rest, safety, comfort. Bristol, Epsom, Kennington, Bermondsey. Southwark Park, Rotherhithe, The Old Justice, NoNo, Embankment. I’ve found new spots and walked new paths and taken up space where I’d never imagined. I like this corner of earth. You’ve helped me realise I never want to settle. I like this patch because I’ve trodden it, but I liked others, and I’ll like more in the future. You’ve helped me see I can find home wherever I go, as long as I choose. I’m comfortable where I decide to wriggle, bury in, get cosy. That bit’s up to me. 

You came in bold and beautiful, with a party surrounded by friends, dripping in orange and cocktails and dancing. Of a headache and a day off work, resting and relaxing. 

You took me running, along the river Thames, under green leaves overhead and beside crashing grey. Across the bridge that splits in two, under buildings sleek and shiny. Through crowds, along streets, and across the finish line in the place where I found home, passed my love, my future family, my past self. You held me as tears filled and stung my eyes with 400m to go. I carried you with every step.

27, you took me to the theatre - to Les Mis and Hamilton and Jesus Christ Superstar and Pride and Cabaret. You took me to the cinema, to Project Hail Mary and Hamnet and the Odeon and the Arzner and the cinema at the Arches. You took me to Hoxton and Hackney and Islington and Highgate and Camden and Stratford and Mile End and Bethnal Green and Victoria and Peckham. 

You took me through Jane Austen and Emily Bronte and Han Kang and John Christopher. You took me to Stourhead and Chatsworth and Basildon Park. To Rosings and Pemberly and Netherfield. You’ll take me back to Lizzy Bennet again and again. 

You marched me hand in mine to find help, ask for it and show up for it. To London Bridge every week to sit and look and stand in all my mess and realise how it’s not so bad and how it’s worse than we thought, and that there’s hope and hopelessness all mixed in together. You breathed for me and with me and into me through every rise of panic, guilt, pain, release. You were there when I realised how hard it’s been and how hard I’ll keep trying. 

27, you explored with me. Across the channel to Paris once again, to hold Max outside Sacre Coeur, to find pastries and paintings. On the boat to the Isle of Wight to see how I can stretch my legs. Alone at 5am to Mallorca to fall more in love with Nat and Gwyn and Lucy and Alice and myself. On the train to Strasbourg and Mannheim to dance at a wedding. To Vienna and Berlin where I can stand up for myself and fold into soft arms, to see new things and find myself amongst them. To ease into planning the future, even when a future feels like too much to hope on. To start living now instead of assuming I’ll stop living later. 

27, you’ve allotted me space and room and time. Time to start living and seize more and hope. Room to see what’s not working, what needs to change, what I want. The chance to see a different future for my work, to carve a map into each day. The space to look to and not just from. I can plan for more, different, other, to better match me. I might not have taken the leap yet, but 27 showed me the gap. 

27 wrapped me in friends that hugged me with warm arms, made me laugh, cheered me on, gave me advice, showed me their wins, showed me their scars. Made me feel part of it all. They wish me well and rely on me and lift me up and think of me. 

27, you got engaged with me this year. You showed me how deeply I am loved. How much thought is spent on me. How lucky I am. Max’s love for me is thick, viscous. It coats our lives and gets in every crevice. I’m in every decision he makes, every invite he gets, every person he meets. He thinks with my brain in there too, thinks for us two. We’re in step and when we’re not we hold hands and find the beat together again. We’re slow and patient and intentional. We’re careful, and hasty, and kind. We consider, we share, we plan, we surprise. 

27 took me walking through life with renewed purpose and energy and hope. 27 closes out with care and safety and longing and acceptance. Thank you for walking these roads with me, and being with me on this journey. It’s time to leave you behind, but I’m grateful for what we shared together. 

Yours,

Elle