I Miss Being The Youngest Person In The Room

I’m pushing 23 and the “pretty young thing” card is getting declined

For as long as I can remember, I’ve almost always been the youngest person in the room. With a December birthday, I started first grade at five years old. I preened when my teachers complimented my advanced reading skills at such a young age, hung around my older brother’s friends¹ and was babied in every extracurricular. A smaller-sized leotard had to be special-ordered ahead of dance recitals². I loved being precocious. Mature for my age. I never thought much of my age until my friends’ younger siblings’ birthdays would come around, the kids in a year or two below me celebrating with a round of shots before I could [legally] order a drink. Moving to London at seventeen just widened the gap. I was still hanging out with people who were around my age, but now that I was out of school, the lines went from blurry to non-existent. In my first year of undergrad, I got put into a Zoom breakout room (please excuse the PTSD flashbacks to the pandemic) with this girl Edie, who I thought was so cool with her expansive literary references and just general grown-up vibes. At some point, our ages came up, and I was slightly relieved to find out that she was twenty-one. I found her undoubtedly cooler and smarter than me, and was somewhat comforted by the idea that I could play catch-up in the next four years.

Uptown Girls (2003)

Who am I if not the youngest person here?

Somewhere along the way, being the youngest person in the room became my favourite party trick, an intrinsic part of my personal brand. When I didn’t catch a reference, I could always shrug; different generations was sufficient explanation. I’d secretly relish in delight whenever a new member of the group discovered my age and would exclaim, Oh you’re a baby! Let’s not unpack what I’m doing wrong with my skincare routine for that to become such a regular occurrence, I’m choosing to believe I was just too mature and put together for an eighteen-year-old, and not that all the time I spent baking under the Brazilian sun had finally taken a toll. Being the youngest took the pressure off. I wasn’t particularly keen on being taken too seriously. I always found being serious to be seriously overrated. Everyone gives you grace when being your age is a distant memory, hazy from too many shots and not enough hours of sleep. I was at my most confident and put together at nineteen³, but when twenty-two hit, and I was forced to leave the safe confines of a university hall and the student label I’d been carrying for my entire life up to that point, all hell broke loose. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who would be afraid of ageing. I read feminist literature and had spent a decade in therapy. I could verbalise my fears and neuroses. I worked through hating myself and my body in ways that only⁴ fifteen-year-old girls can, and somehow thought that I had gotten through all the character development of my youth by the time I finished my undergrad. Not knowing what to do with my life came with a whole new set of fears. Once the most social person in the room, buzzing from the high of meeting new people, I was now haunted by the What do you do? that came immediately after introductions. A summer where my motivation to cook and eat had left simultaneously, and I was sustained exclusively by hummus and bread, meant that all my jeans now hung low on my waist. As a heavily therapized child, I had worked on detaching my worth from numbers, on the scale and on clothing tags. When I managed to leave the house, I’d alternate between haggard and emaciated and a sexy mess. How I looked was no longer the issue, though I was still obsessing over the newfound lines on my temples and would be lying if I said I didn’t get some joy out of having to dig out my high-school jeans from the back of my closet. My new insecurities were heavily related to my personality, and unfortunately for me, you can’t fast and squat your way into being interesting.

Being afraid of something ridiculous doesn’t make it less scary

I feel ridiculous saying I’m pushing 23. I’ve never held on so tightly to my age as I have now, clinging on for as long as I possibly can. For the past year, the passing of time has felt increasingly panic-inducing. I started questioning when I’d start feeling too old for things. I was told to act my age for the first time,⁵ and it was earth-shattering. I had leaned into the pretty young thing bit without even noticing. I started spending more time in front of the mirror, scrunching my face and asking myself if the lines on my forehead were always there when I raised my eyebrows. I oscillated between telling myself I’d never look this good (or at least this young) again and questioning whether I could still pull off the miniskirts of my student years. I reached the uncanny valley of being attracted to men in their thirties⁶ whilst also being put off whenever someone old enough to be my father (if they had knocked up their high school girlfriend) offered to buy me a drink. I’d say age is just a number, but that number became the only label I could still claim, and I was holding on tightly to any sense of self.

Uptown Girls (2003)

I hate being jealous of the twenty-one-year-olds at the party

It’s really not a good look. Being the youngest in the room had become my bit. I’d lean into being young and inexperienced. I was welcomed and babied and hand-held through parties and dinners and meetings with industry people, receiving the kind of kindness from strangers exclusively reserved for non-threatening, up-and-coming, mysteriously funded creatives. I’d introduce myself with the earnest eagerness of someone who’s not sure how they got the invite but is just happy to be there. I reconsidered the girl who told me I could do this⁷ before I even thought of it as a real possibility, who encouraged me to pursue what at the time I saw as just a hobby, who slipped so easily into a big sister role, and then slipped away like she was never there. I met some of her friends, they told me I reminded them of her. I took it as a compliment. She said the same thing to me after we downed a couple bottles of wine. She apologised for rambling about her ex, but I was engrossed, following along, forever delighted to gossip with full government names about people I’d never met⁸. Once again, I was just happy to be there. As I started spiralling over the unescapable plight of ageing, catching myself wishing I was once again the youngest person in the room, I started wondering how I’d feel confronted with a mini-me. I told myself I was being ridiculous as I twiddled my thumbs, expecting a reaction to my first byline. Messages from family, friends, old classmates and virtual strangers littered my inbox. People whom I admired and respected, and if I’m being completely honest, was a little intimidated by, made me feel validated. And yet, there I was, wondering if I’d hear anything from the person who’d given me the initial push. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal, but then again, every writer I’ve ever spoken to remembers their first byline. It’s a career full of firsts that fill you with a giddiness and excitement that is difficult to translate to your friends with respected and well-paid corporate jobs⁹. The first time you see your name in print, the first time you get paid for your writing, the first PR invite or freebie sent to your house, the first comped meal, the first time you’re introduced as a writer and the first time you don’t get the urge to vomit as soon as you use the label yourself. I realised the need for community after my first taste of writer friends. Conversations without the preamble, reassurance that I was doing something right, people to turn to for advice.

More than a bad case of the pre-birthday blues

I started spiralling about my age a couple of weeks ago, or maybe it was already underway for months, unbeknownst to me, the makings of a crisis waiting for an inciting incident to send me on a full blown meltdown, and as unfortunate collateral, having me tell all of my friends, most of which are older than me, that I was terrified at the thought of turning 23. As someone who is notoriously superstitious (which is what I was planning on writing about this week until my therapist cancelled, the radiator dried out my skin, and I was left ruminating, wrinkly and scaly to deal with the fallout), I grew up with the Brazilian concept of Inferno Astral, which literally translates to “Astral Hell.” It refers to the period before your birthday when the stars seem to misalign especially for you. For anyone who’s made crying on their birthday an annual tradition, you’re welcome to have other planets to blame in case Mercury isn’t in retrograde. Earlier this month, I found myself at a party where I simultaneously knew everyone (or at least recognised their names from bylines, mastheads and book covers) and no one at all. I slid into DMs as a Hail Mary attempt to have someone on my corner and was thankfully taken in by the loveliest girls at the function¹⁰. Through every introduction, I leaned into the role of the new kid on the block. I mingled and covertly tried to recruit people to talk to me about their sexy jobs. I was downing French 75s and nibbling on croquettes and developing a quick friendship with the waiter as I seemed to be one of the three people there actually eating. We were on a first-name basis by the end of the night. I was generally having a grand time until I met two girls who were also fresh grads (I say “also” here, but I’m not quite sure what the acceptable timeline is to continue to call yourself a fresh grad). Oh cool, so when did you finish uni? I asked performing the mental maths, just this summer, we’re twenty-one! In the span of thirty seconds, these two girls just went from being the cool lingerie designer and the girl with a pixie cut I could never pull off, to being responsible for ruining my life, or at the very least, my night. Rest assured, I hated myself for it.

Uptown Girls (2003) — this scene altered my brain chemistry

I’m still scared of ageing, but at least so is everyone else.

After chastising myself on the way home for being jealous of the twenty-one-year-olds, I hoped I would leave these icky feelings behind. I bring a chaotic energy to the function that stops being charming the second you’re no longer the youngest person in the room; you go from fun to embarrassing the second an eighteen-year-old walks through the door. There are other less vain and vile reasons why I love being the youngest. I’ve felt lost for long enough that it just feels like that is my resting state, so I’m inherently comforted by being surrounded by people who are wiser and more experienced. I’m still going to make my own [unique] mistakes, but at least I can take theirs into consideration before diving headfirst into regrettable haircuts, jobs and relationships. As I started talking to my equally young friends, rest assured, I’m not one of those socially inept or incredibly high-and-mighty people who don’t like people their age or think they were born in the wrong generation, I realised the fear of ageing has reached us all. It’s not just about being perky and charming. There’s a building pressure to make decisions, to have it together, the bittersweet feeling of becoming a role model. There’s the realisation that your parents are ageing, that your friends will move for work, and that life will get in the way and that the fairy tale land of low responsibility has an expiration date. I have found that historically, voicing my fears has often made me realise how silly they were. In this case, I never had to voice them to realise that losing my shit over no longer being the youngest in the room was decidedly uncool. Alas, I took what I learned from my short-lived meditation stint and accepted the thought, observing it as it floated away like a leaf on a stream. I also wrote an essay about it. It helps to be surrounded by badass women in their 30s, 40s, 50s and beyond, but also to have some hand-holding camaraderie from other twenty-somethings who are very much in the process of figuring things out.

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I am notoriously all over the place, and have written about it at length if you want to commiserate:

In Defence of Messiness

“if it hurts, it means its working”

1. which I was only allowed to do if I was willing to adopt the role of court jester and keep them entertained

2. this predated the Ozempicification of the youth; I was just crawling up the walls at age three and promptly signed up for ballet

3. depressing, I know

4. and every?

5. and to the person who said it: I hope both sides of your pillow are warm and your hair is thinning

6. or like a dilfy forty, not a receding hairline forty

7. this as in write, for work. A life-altering revelation

8. and then getting the delightful two-for-one deal of having insider details when their names came up in conversation (or their faces popped up on my screen)

9. note to my corporate friends: never ever ask a freelance writer how much they made from their latest piece

10. which is what I said, texting them a quick thank you at the end of the night, earnest to a fault and immediately ruining my plans to seem cool and nonchalant