Lessons from Quarter Century of Life: Part I

As I continue my venture into adulthood, it becomes increasingly apparent that adults are adolescents who pay credit card bills and book their own doctors’ appointments. Yes, hopefully, we are wiser at 25 compared to 15, but we will also be wiser at 35 compared to 25, and so on. Essentially, I think the “adult” label doesn’t quite fit dynamic beings because it implies that our development reaches its full potential around the age of 20. In reality, our mental development is ongoing as long as we are alive. We fall into a trap of our own making – expecting too much from our inexperienced selves and depriving ourselves of the freedom to make mistakes. Overburdened with the idea that as adults, we need to have it all figured out – a house, a family, a career – we end up burned out or dissatisfied with our lives, or both. Our concept of “adulthood” robs us of our happiness, because it doesn’t forgive missteps or consider continuous growth and change. We should be wiser, however, and treat ourselves as we would our teenage selves – prioritizing continual learning and growth rather than rushing through life to conform to unrealistic notions of adulthood. If we want to live happy, fulfilled lives, we need to accept that it's okay to still be learning how to live, even at the ripe age of 70 and beyond.

Eleven-thousand-five-hundred-seven unopened emails could be found in my mailbox at the time that I was writing this article. Translate that number to reflect a human settlement and you will get a town of a decent size – one with its own supermarket, police department, and town hall. The town is ever-increasing, there is absolutely no border control and there are at least ten new inhabitants each day. The inhabitants seem to mostly come from the land of Newsletters – a scary place from what I gather, because no one wants to stay there. Every newsletter email is looking for a way out, a new mailbox to call home.

Now that we’ve put the sheer scale of these emails into perspective, we can abandon the metaphors and call these emails what they actually are – digital clutter. The hundreds of pictures on my phone of the same object with slight variations in angles are also clutter. Similarly, clothing I no longer wear is clutter. I used to feel like a piece of chewing gum, involuntarily collecting whatever was in my way. It felt as though stuff just stuck to me, and no matter how many times I had “cleaned” my space – both physical and digital – the stuff would reappear and establish its ever-lasting presence in my life.

Noticing the ineffectiveness of my random “spring cleanings,” I had decided to employ a more direct approach:

1. Opening emails daily and deleting and unsubscribing from newsletters I no longer read.

2. Purging my camera roll according to months and continuing to clean it monthly on the regular.

3. Donating or recycling clothing I no longer wear and scheduling declutter days twice a year.

While none of the above seems radical or difficult to put into practice, the effects are surprisingly impactful on my overall wellbeing. It felt liberating not to have thousands of random emails, which I had to mentally ignore every time I opened my mailbox. Having a curated camera roll meant that it was easier to find pictures I loved. A well-organized closet brought my favorite clothes into view and reignited my interest in fashion. De-cluttering my space was like donning prescription glasses and seeing the world with newfound clarity.

I became a cinephile at 18. That summer, after graduating from high school, I developed an evening ritual – watching a movie every night. The first movie I remember watching was American Beauty. Afterward, I found myself pondering topics that hadn’t occurred to me before. I rewatched the film three or four times since then, noticing new details. Tonight, I’ll watch Big Fish, and I invite you to join me and share your thoughts. We might even make this a tradition – a movie club of sorts.

Yes, I mean the trees outside. No, I promise I’m not weird. Look, I myself was skeptical at first, but one day, after reading about the benefits of physical contact with nature, I hugged a tree in the woods and felt an unusual calmness. Unlike people or pets, trees stand tall and strong, and the feelings that arise when hugging a tree are of a different sense of safety and stability – think about it, trees are the only huggable living beings that are 30 meters tall. Following my first friendly encounter in the woods, I developed a liking for a specific ash tree, which I now regularly visit. I also spoke to it, and for the first time in a long while, I felt that the universe heard me. The ash tree became a friend and, without any words, eased my worries and healed my soul.

I love the sun – the warmth and the fact that it helps me synthesize vitamin D – but I don’t want to develop skin cancer or look like a prune when I’m 40. Neither do you, I hope. So please, use mineral, oxybenzone-free sunscreen every day. And yes, you will still get a tan with sunscreen on.

Your brain creates new neural pathways when you work on math problems. These freshly baked pathways sharpen your logical reasoning, problem-solving, and analytical skills, making you a smarter you.

I’m not a dentist, but I am a 25-year-old who’s never had a cavity. Does that make me an authority on oral hygiene? Probably not, but this is my blog, and I’ll share my thoughts regardless. You need to floss at least once a day because you don’t want food debris stuck in your teeth – it’s nasty. Brush your teeth twice daily (for two minutes minimum!) with fluoride toothpaste. Never, and I mean never, rinse your mouth afterward because you want the fluoride to work its magic and protect your enamel, preventing cavities. Use a tongue scraper and mouthwash, and ensure that fluoride is the last thing that touches your teeth before sleep.

Everyone talks about the importance of traveling, but few people mention that you can travel while looking at art. When I lived in London, I would regularly visit the National Gallery and embark on voyages to distant lands and time periods. Looking at Paul Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, I would be in Tudor England. Observing Peter Paul Rubens’ landscapes, I would be transported to the countryside of Brabant. The artworks are gifts from the masters to humanity – carefully crafted windows into the past – and museums are time machines that transport us to distant, foreign lands.