Time, when you’re young, tends to give you the impression of being endless. At five years old, an hour feels close to a day, and a year is practically a century. Being asked ‘what did you do over your holiday’ is the adult equivalent of ‘where were you at 5:45 pm on the 12th of February 1996?’

My point is that even when you’re ten years old, life doesn’t seem to go that quick, and it feels like you’ve got all the time in the world to figure everything out.
In my case, ten year old me had some very exact ideas about what I was going to have achieved by the time I was twenty-five. Twenty-five, to me, was the pinnacle of adulthood. By twenty-five, I was going to be famous, be married, have children, a house of my own, and adoring fans, and then I’d have plenty of time afterwards to enjoy it all in luxury.

Well, I’m twenty-three now, and my ten year old self is still tapping her foot, waiting on a lot of things. Apparently, in order to fulfil myself, I have one hell of a busy schedule to catch up on in the next two years.

It may seem silly to some readers, especially anyone older than me, but you have to understand that from my perspective twenty-three is the oldest I’ve ever been, and that the ten year old inside of me is incredibly demanding. Call me idealistic or foolish, but the self-expectancy I placed on myself from a young age has never really gone away, and even though a lot of my goals have changed, I still have that internal list of ‘Things to do before I’m twenty-five.’

A part of me wishes that I could go back in time, and talk to my little self, and explain how things are going to work out. Talk to her about fighting with depression, and bereavement, and the hours spent struggling not to let my dyslexia rule what I could or couldn’t do. I wish I could go back and say, ‘You’re going to make some really stupid mistakes’ and then assure little me that these weren’t a ‘waste of time’ but rather a lesson in how to use it better.

Mostly, if I could go back in time and talk to anybody about my ‘list’ it would be my mother. Because, let’s be honest, little me would nod at everything I told her and take none of it in, because little me is a ten-year old with no perspective of time, and high expectations of herself.

For a majority of my life I was under the impression that my mother wasn’t a great achiever. I don’t mean this in a rude way: she built and cared for our family, and I thought she was invincible, and amazing, and strong. But she wasn’t a movie star, or a big business woman, or any of the other qualities that we place so much importance on in our society. She was just my Mum.

It was only in the last few years of her life, that I really got to talking to her about what she did do with her life. And it was only after her death a year ago that I started bubbling with even more questions about the adventures she went though, and what she achieved.
This was a woman who could speak several languages, was highly educated, with a degree and masters-equivilant from a very prestigious French University. Even the fact she could speak English so fluently should have flabbergasted me, seeing as there wasn’t a drop of English blood in her body. These things never occurred me growing up.

My mother was a woman who had a long line of qualifications under her belt. She went through a number of different jobs, had skills in writing, admin, language, geography and teaching. She could sing, and dance, and my God, but could she throw a great party!
By the time she was my age, she had only just met my Dad. She was studying in the Lake District, taking a year out from France. She ended up marrying the strange Englishman she met at the fancy dress party, and then spent several years on an adventure, travelling and seeing the world.

If we regard achievements as the amount of stories you have to tell at the end of the day, than my mother had one hell of a life.

I wish I could talk to her about it, I wish she could talk me through this transitional period as I try to be both the person I wanted when I was ten, and try to be more realistic with myself. If she was around, my mother would probably scoff at me for my feelings of disappointment and self-doubt. I think the first thing she’d do was remind me of all the things I have achieved.

You see, the list of things to do before you’re twenty-five is always growing. As my life takes me down new and unexpected routes, there are going to be some things on the list that no longer stand for who I am, and others that need to be added.

Ten year old me would have never dreamed that I’d earn a black belt in Karate by the time I was eighteen. Or that I’d get a music scholarship to my University, and start directing my own choir, and writing original music. She wouldn’t have guessed that I would be accepted for a PhD, or that I would start lecturing the year after.

I guess the point I’m trying to make, is that alot of us have a screaming ten-year old in our head that tells us what we should have done by the time we hit a certain marker, but when that voices gets too loud its good to remind yourself of the things you have done. Because at the end of the day, that ten year old has no perspective of the trails and tribulations you’re going to go through, and whilst they can be a good motivator, they have no right to bully you.

Life is not a checklist of things you need to tick in order. Life is a bunch of stories and experiences, some of which come at the worst possible time, and from the least likely places.

So with that in mind, here’s my list of things to do before I’m twenty-five:
1)      Do the best I damn well can
2)      Write a new list for ‘30’