I turn 23 this week. I've never been more bummed out about an age in my life. All the ages up until here are exciting. 23 just feels, well, old.

I'm probably older than most of the creators on this platform. Most of you are still in college, maybe even in the twilight of your teenage years, having the time of your life. For you, the future is exciting. I remember those days—young, wild and free. I remember the beach visits at 3 a.m., crawling into my dorm room bed after a long night messing around in the campus library, sleeping in and missing classes. Sweet freedom.

I graduated at 20, but life didn't stop with the excitement. 21 was exciting because... Well, I'm just going to be honest: Alcohol. 22 was exciting because Taylor Swift wrote a really great song about it that just made that age feel promising. 22 felt like the cusp of something new; adventurous. 22 was untapped potential.

But the year during which I was 22 years old was the worst year of my life, and now, as I encroach upon the enigmatic number 23, I'm not really sure what to make of it. Or, of myself.

Am I scared? Maybe a little.

Okay, yeah. I'm scared.

I'm scared because 22 was so dark and lonely, and 23 feels like it's going to be that way, too. I'm scared because 23 is a number I don't know how to reconcile, and, let's be honest: Prime numbers are pretty terrifying.

But maybe if Taylor Swift said 22 was good, and it ended up being so bad for me...Maybe 23 will be a better year, instead of a worse one. Maybe it's supposed to be enigmatic; full of mystery and wonder and hope. Hope. What a word. My life has been absent of hope lately. Maybe it's time to reinstate it.

Maybe 23 can be exciting, too, even if there aren't any songs about it. Maybe I don't have to hate growing older. Maybe I can look back and smile without wondering if 18-year-old me would be disappointed with who I am today.

I think she probably would be. But I guess it's not my job to make her proud. She had a lot of things wrong, anyway. She didn't see the bigger picture. After all, she was only 18. She was just a teenager. She didn't know what she was doing—she didn't even know who she was supposed to be. I don't even know if anything could make her proud. She just desperately wanted to prove a thousand people wrong.

It's easy to associate growing older with failure. We have so many expectations for ourselves; so many hopes and desires that we propel ourselves towards in an attempt to become great. At 18, most of us have chips on our shoulders—and at nearly 23, I'm only just now dusting the remnants of that chip off of me.

Those chips on our shoulders will make us absolutely miserable. Don't spend as much time as I did trying to prove yourself. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. It's your life. Don't waste it pleasing other people.

So here's to 23. Here's to you, whatever age you may be. Here's to every 18-year-old reading this. Cut your future self some slack. Enjoy the next year, whether it be another year in college, or a year in the professional world. And, whatever you do, live well.

I'm going to live so well this year that everyone will ask the question:

Why didn't Taylor Swift ever mention 23?