Not literally, obviously. But I do think I became self-aware before I was ready to be.

I noticed things.

I noticed when someone’s tone changed. When a friendship started feeling different. When I was talking too much. When I wasn’t talking enough. When someone looked at me a certain way. When I said something I wished I could take back.

Things that as a kid, I didn’t need to notice.

I noticed myself noticing.

And I think that might be the part that made growing up feel a little strange.

Because there is a kind of freedom in being young and not thinking too much about what anything means.

Doing something because it’s fun.
Liking something because you like it.
Saying yes without calculating every possible outcome.

I don’t know if I ever got very good at that.

I think I was always a little too aware.

And sometimes I wonder if I missed out on a certain kind of youthful oblivion.

Not because I want my old life back. I don’t.

I like knowing myself. I like being observant. I like noticing the small shifts in people and places. I like that I can walk into a room and feel when something is different before anyone says it.

But I think there’s a difference between being perceptive and being perpetually on.

And maybe that’s what I’m starting to learn.

Not how to notice less, but how to let myself notice something without immediately turning it into something else.

The coffee can just be good.

The song can just be my favorite.

The movie can just be funny.

Maybe I don’t need to become less aware.

Maybe I just need to learn when I don’t need to be.

Learn to find small pockets of oblivion. Little moments where I’m not thinking about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow or whether I’m doing any of it right.

I’m just here.

And maybe that’s what the little things have been giving me all along:

a place to be without having to figure anything out.

Like I’d eventually reach an age where I knew what I was doing. Where my career would make sense, my friendships would stay the same, my home would be finished, and I’d have a pretty confident answer to “So, what’s next?”

Instead, I’m 29 and figuring out that maybe adulthood doesn’t work that way.

This year, I got laid off.

Again.

It’s the second time I’ve been laid off in my 20s, which is not exactly the milestone I imagined I’d be collecting by the time I got here.

The first time felt different. I was younger. I had fewer years behind me and plenty of time ahead of me, so starting over didn’t feel quite as heavy.

This time, it feels more personal.

I’ve spent most of my 20s working. I started working before a lot of my friends did, and for a while, that shaped who I spent my time with and what my life looked like.

And somewhere along the way, some of those friendships changed.

Our priorities changed.

The things we cared about started looking different. Our schedules didn’t line up. We were living different versions of our 20s.

And then, almost without realizing it, some people who had once been a huge part of my life weren’t anymore.

At the same time, some of my closest friendships now are with people I met through work.

People who were in similar stages of life. People who understood what it was like to be building a career, figuring out who you were outside of it, navigating relationships, getting married, talking about apartments and mortgages and whether any of us actually knew what we were doing.

Those friendships feel different.

Maybe because we met each other as the people we were becoming, rather than the people we had been.

And I think that’s one of the stranger parts of growing up.

You start realizing that not everyone you started with is meant to come with you the whole way.

And that’s okay.

I still catch myself comparing, though.

• Someone I went to school with just bought a house.

• Someone else has the job title I thought I’d have by now.

• Someone is having a baby.

• Someone has been at the same company for years and seems incredibly established.

• Someone else seems to have figured out exactly what they want.

And then there’s me.

Recently laid off. Starting something new. Writing on the internet because why not give it a shot.

It’s very easy to look around and feel like everyone else received a map that somehow never made it to you.

But lately I’ve been wondering if we’re just using the wrong measurement.

Maybe being ahead isn’t having the house, the title, the salary, the five-year plan.

Maybe it’s knowing yourself a little better than you did last year.

Because the older I get, the more I realize how much peace there is in knowing who you are—even when you don’t necessarily know what’s next.

Maybe growing up isn’t about checking off all the things you thought you’d have by a certain age. The home. The baby. The career. The perfectly mapped-out future.

Maybe it’s getting to a place where you can look at your life, wherever it happens to be, and still recognize yourself in it.

And maybe that’s its own kind of being ahead.

At 29, I don’t think I’m supposed to have everything figured out.

I think I’m just old enough to realize how little of life actually goes according to plan.

And maybe that’s the part I’m finally getting comfortable with.

I’m still becoming. But I know who I am in the middle of it.

And maybe that’s enough.

We tend to know who the stars are.

They’re the ones everyone notices. The loudest person in the room. The person telling the best story. The one who somehow has everyone gathered around them.

But I’ve started to think there’s another kind of star.

The person paying attention.

The friend who remembers the thing you mentioned three months ago and asks how it turned out.

The person who notices you got quiet halfway through dinner.

The one who sends you a photo from the grocery store because they saw something that reminded them of you.

The person who notices your hair got lighter. The different tone in your voice. The fact that you always order almond milk in your coffee.

None of these things are particularly impressive on their own.

And that’s kind of the point.

I’ve always been drawn to people who notice. Maybe because I’ve always been a person who notices, too.

I notice the little things people say in passing. I remember strange details. I’ll see something in a store and immediately think, so-and-so would love this.

Sometimes I wonder if I spend too much time paying attention.

But then someone tells me they remembered something I said, or they bring up a tiny detail I didn’t think anyone noticed, and I realize how good it feels to know that someone was listening.

There’s something really lovely about being noticed without having to ask for it.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been particularly interested in the idea that being a “star” means being the person everyone is looking at.

What if being a star can mean making someone else feel like they matter?

What if the brightest people in our lives aren’t always the ones taking up the most space?

Maybe they’re the ones quietly making space for everyone else.

The ones paying attention.

⭐

The things people say in passing but don’t realize they’ve shared. The tiny details that reveal what someone loves. The moments that seem ordinary at first, but somehow stay with you.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last 8 years of my life in marketing roles, where you’re constantly trying to understand people—what they care about, what makes them feel something, what makes a brand (or a message) actually stick.

But outside of work, I think I’ve always approached life the same way.

I notice the coffee order someone gets every morning. The name of a friend’s childhood dog. The gift that isn’t expensive but is somehow perfect because someone remembers a passing comment from months ago.

Those are the things that make people feel known.

And I think that’s what thoughtful people do best. They pay attention.

In a world where it’s easier than ever to move quickly, automate everything, and scroll past the things around us, there’s something about slowing down enough to notice.

Because a lot of the ways we show we care are actually pretty small.

• A “this reminded me of you” text.

• A bottle of chocolate milk delivered just because you know it’s their favorite.

• A meme sent because someone knew it would make you laugh.

• A detail remembered when you didn’t expect anyone to remember.

The little things.

I created little things, considered as a place to explore those moments: the details, observations, and everyday things that quietly shape hoe we see the world and each other.

This isn’t a place where I have all the answers. It’s just a place to pay closer attention.

To the things we notice.

The things we remember.

The things that make someone feel considered.

Thanks for being here. I’m excited to share what I’ve been noticing.

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