Birthday: I'm 24, But Also 23, 18, 11, and 1

When I woke up on my 24th birthday, I expected to feel different. Maybe wiser, more mature, or at least a little older. But I didn’t. I felt exactly the same as I did yesterday. My room looked the same, my thoughts hadn’t magically evolved overnight, and if someone asked, “How does it feel to be 24?” I wouldn’t have had an answer.

Because the truth is, I’m not just 24—I’m still 23, still 21, still 18, still 11, 8, and 1. Every year I’ve lived isn’t something I leave behind; it stays with me, layering like an onion, each version of myself wrapped inside the next.

One day, I might say something reckless—that’s my 16-year-old self talking. Other times, I hesitate to trust myself, and that’s my 20-year-old self, still questioning everything. And some days, I just want to cry for no reason—that’s the 1-year-old in me, still overwhelmed by emotions too big to put into words.

Birthdays create the illusion of change, as if we step into a new version of ourselves the moment the clock strikes midnight. But the truth? We are all the people we’ve ever been, carried forward into the present.

I used to think certain ages would change everything. At 11, I couldn’t wait to be a teenager. At 16, I thought adulthood would unlock all the confidence I lacked. At 18, I believed 21 would be the age when life finally made sense. But now, at 24, I see it clearly—no age has ever felt exactly like I expected it to. Growth isn’t instant. It’s slow, subtle, and scattered across moments, not just years.

Some days, I still feel like the awkward 13-year-old, unsure where I fit in. Other times, I carry the exhaustion of 22-year-old me, who was still figuring things out. And occasionally, I shock myself with unexpected confidence—maybe a gift from the boldness of my 19-year-old self.

The way we grow older isn’t linear—it’s layered. We don’t leave behind our past selves; we carry them with us. The 8-year-old who loved cartoons, the 18-year-old who felt invincible, the 22-year-old who feared the unknown—they all exist within me. And maybe that’s why birthdays never feel as transformative as we expect. Because while we welcome a new number, we never truly say goodbye to the ones that came before.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it. We don’t erase the past versions of ourselves—we simply build on them. The courage I had at 5 years old, when I proudly showed off my drawings, still exists somewhere within me, even if self-doubt sometimes tries to smother it. The excitement of my 10-year-old self, waking up early on a school day just to watch my favorite cartoon, still sparks joy in me when I stumble upon an old childhood favorite. The heartbreak of 17-year-old me, who thought certain friendships would last forever, still lingers when I think of the people who drifted away. Every version of myself has shaped the way I experience the world today.

And in the same way, the future versions of myself are waiting. The 25-year-old me, the 30-year-old me, the 40-year-old me—each one will carry pieces of who I am now. The lessons I’m learning today, the mistakes I make, the people I love, the dreams I chase—all of it will be part of the person I become.

So instead of feeling pressure to have everything figured out by a certain age, I remind myself: I am always a work in progress. I am not just 24. I am every age I have ever been, layered together, shaping me in ways I don’t always notice. And that means I am never too old to be curious like a child, never too young to be wise beyond my years. Growth doesn’t mean letting go of who we were—it means carrying every version of ourselves forward, learning to embrace the contradictions, the changes, and the constants within us.

So here’s to turning 24. And 23. And 21, 18, 11, 8, and 1. Here’s to every version of myself that still speaks up, still shapes who I am, and still reminds me that growing older doesn’t mean leaving myself behind—it means carrying myself forward.