When you're 23

Spoiler alert: Nobody likes you.

Ah, yes. The classic Blink-182 lyric that has inspired a million-and-one birthday Instagram captions, tributes, cards and cakes.

For many, your 20s are supposed to be filled with staying out late, drinking too much, eating too much junk food and living life in the best possible way. That's what 22 was supposed to be like because that's what 21 was like, but it wasn't. Instead I graduated college, moved back home jobless and have been miserable ever since. I know I'm complaining, yada, yada, yada.

Being 22 was supposed to be fun. Spoiler alert: I wasn't happy or free. Just confused and lonely. Miserable, not magical. Taylor Swift, you tried to prepare me for this but you didn't.

Post college life is hard. It's draining. This has been the most trying year of my life. At first, I was thrilled to be out of school. I made it! I'm an "adult!!!" But I was desperate for a job, a "real one." I was told to not get "stuck" and, honestly, that was hard. It's hard to watch my friends get dream jobs, full-time positions with benefits, while I checked my email every hour to see if anyone responded to my job applications.

You know when you walk into a room and immediately forget why you are there? What am I forgetting? That's how I felt last September when my underclassmen friends were preparing to go back to college. It's true. College went on without me. Forgot about me just like that. Moved on so quickly. It's weird to not know when I'll see my friends next. To see them everyday, then to not see anyone at all. To go from having every second of the day planned between classes, work, dinner dates to movie nights. To not go out on weekends. (Side note: A couple of months ago I praised myself for making a new friend. I even tweeted "Yesterday I hung out with a new friend, everyone be proud of me." Post college life is hard.)

But I didn't get stuck. I moved on for the better at 23. I moved to New York City on a whim (kinda/sorta with very little drama in between). Life feels so real here. Like I'm doing something worthwhile (or on my way to). I feel at home at the rat-infested subways and during a busy rush hour in Midtown. The fast-paced environment is motivating and a reminder to where I am, why I'm here and how far, how long, how hard it's taken for me to get here. The pieces are still coming together. I don't have my dream job, only a few friends, but, with that, still experiencing every inch and part of New York. There's still the inner dialogue inside me telling me I should have everything figured out by now. But the same inner dialogue telling me it's okay I'm falling short. Right? I've still never felt more content and more at peace knowing my home is NYC. At 23.

I should act my age.