“How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?”

It’s been a while (four years) since I wrote about being [insert age]. Naturally, I’m starting with a Taylor Swift quote, and though I’m 23 and not 22, it’s just as relevant. Back then, I thought I knew everything. It turns out I don’t.

If I had to describe the past year in one word, it would be: disillusioned. I graduated with a master’s from the University of Cambridge and chose to stay in the UK. It would be partially dishonest to say I didn’t stay for a boy. But I also stayed because I’d made new friends, built a new life and didn’t want my time in Cambridge to be a temporary blip in the timeline. I wanted to give my relationships a chance rather than retreating to the comforts of citizenship and general familiarity, rather than forgetting people’s surnames and only staying in touch via Instagram.

But being an adult is hard! I can’t believe this many people do it every day! Between finding a job and an affordable flat, opening a foreign bank account and attempting financial independence, managing a long-distance relationship, being far from my family and juggling the stress-related health issues that unsurprisingly arose, 23 was by no means an easy feat. Not to mention: my grandfather passed away (and I couldn’t leave the country to attend his funeral), my parents moved out of my childhood home (which is now inhabited by a dysfunctional family, so the rumours go) and my boyfriend broke up with me (though – bless him – he’s undoubtedly the best ex-boyfriend a girl could have).

I’ve had to accept that not every ending is neat – you can’t always say goodbye or get closure. And whoever said “everything happens for a reason” was obviously daft – though I’ve been a sceptic since the seventh grade. Not everything can be rationalised, especially the actions of other people – really, anything beyond your control.

Being an adult is also being lonely and learning to be comfortable with emotions, rather than living in fear of being seen as weak or unstable. It’s okay to dwell for a moment, to cry (which I’ve been doing much more frequently as of late – my friend told me it’s a 20s thing) so long as it doesn’t consume you. Distraction isn’t the antidote – it’s only a band-aid. I think about the monologue, delivered exquisitely by Michael Stuhlbarg, in Call Me by Your Name: “To make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything – what a waste! Right now, there’s sorrow, pain. Don’t kill it and with it the joy you’ve felt.”

But I’d hate to be a downer. If you know me – I mean, actually know me – then you know I’m infinitely positive about life’s potential. I don’t believe in god or astrology or anything of that sort (and yes, god and astrology fall into the same camp), but I do believe that time is precious and ought not to be wasted. When I’m 80, I want to look back and feel content with the choices I made, the people I prioritised, the life I led.

So every day, I operate to that end. And there’s much to be proud of thus far: I started my career as a writer, which I might have once called a ‘pipe dream’. Similarly, I was published by my favourite film magazine. I photographed a Cambridge May Ball, attended my first ‘business trip’ and produced a sold-out show in a London theatre. More importantly, I maintained contact with those most dear to me, because whether they’re 300 or 3,000 miles away, the people in my life are irreplaceable.

As I look towards 24, I know… nothing. But the mystery of what’s to come is enough to keep me going.