Hello 31, it’s 30—the final hour that remains of it. It seems apt that I am exhausted from a long travel day, that I am once again falling asleep in a new place to wake to the sunrise over an unfamiliar horizon. It’s been that sort of year.

A year ago, I told you not to apologise for who you were. But it turns out that maybe it was never about apologising: maybe, the real truth was that I was still figuring out the who of it all. The who I was becoming in the natural shift that occurred as I once more picked up my life, from Toronto back to Europe.

I tried out fitting the life I’d had to Toronto to Europe, thinking it might be different here. That it might fix the insurmountable crushing feeling I’d been carrying around for so long. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t. Crushed down to the last shreds of energy remaining, only then could I realise that it was enough. That things had to change.

It took six months, maybe a little longer than that, even. Six months to actually undo the tendrils of burnout that had sunk so deep inside of me that I barely knew how to live differently. It took saying no to everything that is expected of me, just for a little while. A regular job. A stable address. A solid source of income.

It took arguing, again and again, against the people who said I couldn’t live like this. Not forever, no. But for now, I could. I had to. I don’t know what would have been left of me if I hadn’t.

I read a book recently that spoke to the four pillars required to actually gain some semblance of happiness in these quarterlife years, and into the future. One of them was about listening. Not to everyone around you; not to the endless echo chamber of people who mean well but don’t know what’s best for you. But to your intuition. To your own gut instinct. It has guided me well, many times: in times of crisis; in times of adventure.

This is the year I listened. To every instinct. And while so much remains uncertain, and there is so much I don’t yet know about how the next year will pan out, I know this: if I have achieved nothing else, I have been true to myself. To my talents. To my passions. To my dreams.

So, 31, it’s your turn. Maybe you’ll figure it out. Maybe you won’t. Maybe your writing career will finally—finally—take a tangible step forward. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you’ll find your forever home, or your forever person. Maybe you won’t.

But each step forward is one further than where you were yesterday, and there is always a new sunrise to discover.

Good luck, 31.

Maybe You'll Figure It Out, 31