Nicole Vetrano

Your twenties isn’t meant to be a competition against your fellow millennials.

You will find love again. And it doesn’t have to be the same kind of love that you let go of, the one you set free for a reason.

I used to think that maybe they were cruel, those four words he spoke aloud on that last day. “I want to die.” But they weren’t cruel, they were confession. They were a hand reached out, one waiting to be grasped with loving firmness.

We’re all made up of deep rooted insecurities; that’s just a part of being a woman in the society that’s raised us. But let’s fight to change that.

How can this person ever truly love me when I can’t even love myself?

Behind every successful person is a path at least partly cemented with regret for what could have been, but ultimately never came to be because of a mistake that was made.

Don’t wilt, but bloom.

We need to start reminding ourselves, teaching each other, that endings are always going to happen. But that with endings come rebirths.

If something is your dream, it is always worth pursuing.

You’ll eventually find love that sticks, love that is mutual and promising. But take your time. Not everyone finds the love that finally feels right while they’re in their twenties.

Your own curiosity does not give you the right to weigh in on my sexuality. In any way. Ever.

Because love is what cements hope and passion into the space between two people, is what is able to fulfill realized expectations—ones of dedication and faithfulness and patience.

When you look at me, at any woman, respect her enough to see past her exterior.

My body is an amazing, functional machine. One that gracefully carries me places, allowing me to see and experience the world. For once, I don’t care if you accept it, if it lives up to your expectations.

You don’t know everything there is to know yet, and that’s okay.

Now I’m left with so little it hurts.

Realize that you are tangible and valid, no matter the amount of “likes” that selfie you just posted gets. Remember that the quality of your worth isn’t measured by how many followers you have or by how many people publicly wish you well on your birthday.

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss having you around. Or, at least, I miss the idea of you.