The Archives of Almost: A Love Letter to My 20s

Every once in a while, I accidentally scroll too far back in my camera roll and land smack-dab in the golden era of bad eyeliner, bottom-shelf beer, and questionable career choices.

It’s 2013-ish. I’m working at Dart, writing marketing copy about cups. Literal cups. The kind that hold other people’s more interesting beverages. My cubicle is a shrine to chaos — empty coffee mugs, rogue Post-Its, and coworkers who prank each other so hard it borders on performance art.

There’s me with tissues stuffed up my nose mid-sinus infection. There’s me, earbuds in, blasting Pitbull to forget I’m writing about plastic. And there’s me, gleefully documenting the time we sent our coworker a fake resignation email from himself and the boss played along.

Somewhere in the middle of all that ridiculousness — I fell in love. Not metaphorically. Like, actually fell in love. “Lindsay loves you!” by bestie texted my now husband. “I love you too,” he replied directly to me (because he was smart enough to know I was sitting right next to her). The kind of digital flirtation that could only exist in the age of Snapchat filters and bad Wi-Fi.

Cut to a bonfire. Cold air, warm hoodie, that face I knew better through pixelated photos suddenly right next to mine — and everything felt solid.

Now I can’t decide what’s funnier — how young we all looked or how grown-up we thought we were.

We hid pennies in each other’s offices like gremlins. We thought drinking Blue Moon counted as being classy. We believed time was endless, love was easy, and hangovers were optional.

And honestly? I kind of miss her — that version of me who said yes to everything. Who found humor in the middle of monotony. Who didn’t yet know how quickly life would start counting down instead of stretching out.

But she’s still here — just upgraded. She swapped her cubicle for a studio, her plastic cups for purpose, her Friday nights for family and foam rollers.

Still laughing. Still loving.

Because no matter how many years stack between who we were and who we are, one thing’s for sure:

Time might be a cruel b*tch, but she’s got a killer sense of humor.

Every season of life leaves souvenirs — photos, texts, running jokes — that remind us who we’ve been. 

Revisiting them isn’t about longing for the past; it’s about remembering that every version of you, even the one with tissues up her nose and cheap beer in her hand, helped build the one you’re becoming.

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Snack-sized sentiments, full-sized feelings. Follow @MoveMakerInc for more everyday chaos and emotional clarity.