From Tequila to Teething
By Emma-Jane Taylor (@emma.taylor91)
I’m not saying my 20s were a disaster, but if I had a pound for every questionable decision I made between the ages of 21 and 28, I could probably pay off my mortgage… or at least my overdraft.
Back then, life was a kaleidoscope of late-night takeaways, ill-advised flings, crying in club toilets with strangers who instantly became “soul sisters”, and spending my rent money on Zara’s “new in” section. Oh, and don’t get me started on the 3am existential crises about whether Liam from Tinder liked my last Instagram story.
But here I am now: thirty-five, married, a mum of two, and oddly enough, calmer than I’ve ever been. My phone battery lasts all day, my skincare has a routine, and I own socks that actually match. Growth.
So, allow me to offer some reflections, from one former party goblin to the next.
Your 20s are for the plot, not the peace.
I used to think every wrong turn was a personal failure. The job I quit after 3 months, the toxic relationship I stayed in too long, the friends I let go of… all of it felt like chaos at the time. But now I see those years as character development.
That flat in London I shared with two girls and a colony of suspiciously confident mice? Character.
The time I backpacked around Europe with £11 in my bank account and no plan? Character.
That one New Year’s Eve I cried in a kebab shop in Brighton because my ex turned up with someone else? Okay, trauma and character.
I wouldn’t want to relive it, but I don’t regret any of it. It all taught me how to listen to my instincts, which, for the record, were on mute for most of my twenties.
Motherhood didn’t “fix” me, it revealed me.
I was terrified of becoming a mum. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I thought I’d have to become someone else entirely. Like I’d wake up in beige loungewear, craving steamed broccoli, and suddenly forget how to flirt with a Tesco cashier out of sheer boredom.
Spoiler: I’m still me. But now, I’m a version of me who can function on 4 hours of sleep, knows the difference between colic and teething, and can do a nappy change with one hand while holding a coffee in the other (decaf, sadly).
Motherhood didn’t make me “whole”, I was already whole, I just didn’t know it. What it did do is strip away the noise. The performance. The need to be liked. Now, I don’t have the energy to pretend, and honestly? It’s bliss.
Things I wish I’d known at 24:
Your body isn’t the best thing about you. That stomach you hated in 2016? It’s now the place your baby naps. Be nice to her, you’ll miss her one day.
Don’t trust anyone who tells you being single is a problem to solve. Being single is a season. A brilliant, wild, often heartbreaking season. And it passes, sometimes too fast.
No one knows what they’re doing. Seriously. Even Karen from HR. Even that girl on Instagram with the neutral aesthetic and the Dyson Airwrap. Everyone is winging it.
You are allowed to outgrow people. Even if you loved them. Even if you have matching tattoos. Growth isn’t betrayal.
Start saving. Or at least stop spending like your debit card is a suggestion.
Things I’ll never apologise for:
That year I dyed my hair purple because of a breakup.
Dating the drummer. We all have to do it once.
Saying yes to the girls' trip to Croatia when I had £67 to my name.
Getting therapy when I was still pretending everything was “fine.”
Walking away from people who only liked the loud, “fun” version of me.
In your 30s, the party looks different.
Now, a wild night is two glasses of red, uninterrupted Netflix, and a baby monitor that doesn’t light up. I get excited about air fryers and a good school catchment area. My friends and I talk about pelvic floor physio and oat milk as if we’re discussing state secrets.
And yet, I’ve never felt more powerful.
Because now, I know who I am. Not just the curated version for Instagram. The real me. The one who used to dance until sunrise and now cries watching Bluey. The one who still sometimes misses the freedom of her twenties but wouldn’t trade this peace for all the tequila shots in Shoreditch.
If you’re in your 20s and feel like a hot mess in a misguided jumpsuit, take heart. That chaos isn’t ruining you, it’s refining you. Keep learning. Keep softening. And know this: the best is still ahead.
Just maybe pack a snack, yeah?
