Four years ago, on the day I turned twenty years old, I spent the entire morning in bed suffering from a minor existential crisis; I had lived for two decades and hadn’t really accomplished much. After all, by the age of twenty, Bill Gates had founded Microsoft, Mary Shelley had written Frankenstein, Aretha Franklin was a reputed recording artist, Asa Long was the US chess champion, Billy the Kid had murdered over twelve people, William Webb Ellis had invented the sport of rugby, Tracy Austin had won the US Open, and Jane Austen published her second novel, Pride and Prejudice. Me? I was stuck at Georgetown University in a program I didn’t enjoy, with people I didn’t like all that much, and with no real earth-shattering accomplishments to list beside my name.

Four years later, I have no qualms about waking up in the morning. Sure, I still have yet to do anything notable in my life, but I’m okay with that. In fact, I think my most notable accomplishment in the past four years has been to finally realize that I don’t need to be a Nadia Comaneci (gymnastics gold at 14) or a George Gershwin (famous composer at 16) or even a Steve Jobs (Apple Computers founder at 21) in order to feel validated: I am happy with who I am and what I have done, albeit small, to change the lives of the people around me.

If my years from the age of twenty to twenty-four have been marked by a quasi-quarter-life crisis, I will readily claim that the big two-four represents a break away from such a time of confusion of identity and questioning of self-worth, and instead represents a time where I am invigorated with ideas and excited by prospects of the future. Sameer Vasta at twenty-four is a different man than Sameer Vasta at twenty, and I surely hope that shows.

Plus, I don’t need to worry, both my idols (Ernest Hemingway and JD Salinger) didn’t publish their first novels until the ages of 27 and 32 respectively. Hehehe. So happy birthday to me, and thanks for a great two dozen years of being alive.