Katy Scott

Am I having a quarter life crisis?

Growing up, I always heard about the infamous “midlife crisis” – a phrase usually tossed around with a mix of judgment and humor. But only recently have I started hearing about something else: a “quarter life crisis.” It sounds almost ironic at first, like how could you possibly be in crisis when your life is just beginning? And yet, here I am, on the eve of my 25th birthday, wondering if that’s exactly what this is.

I found myself sitting down and writing out my dreams, my goals, and where I want my life to be in the next year. Not five years. Not ten. Just one. Somehow, even that felt overwhelming. The list wasn’t just about ambition; it was about pressure. Pressure to be on the “right” path, to have something to show for myself, to feel certain about decisions that suddenly seem permanent.

Turning 25 feels heavier than I expected. It feels like a quiet checkpoint. Like I’ve been moving forward all this time without really looking up, and now I’ve stopped long enough to ask: Is this where I thought I’d be? And the honest answer is… I don’t know.

There’s this strange narrative that your early twenties are for exploration, making mistakes, trying things out, figuring yourself out. But somewhere along the way, that narrative shifts. Without warning, it becomes about stability. Careers. Relationships. Purpose. And if you haven’t quite figured those things out yet, it can feel like you’re already behind.

Social media doesn’t help. It’s a highlight reel of everyone else’s milestones – new jobs, big moves, engagements, achievements – all neatly packaged into celebratory posts. It creates this illusion that everyone else has it together, while you’re still refreshing your inbox or second guessing your choices. It’s easy to forget that most people are just as unsure, just as scared, just as inbetween as you are.

Maybe that’s what this “quarter life crisis” really is, not a crisis in the dramatic sense, but a moment of awareness. A moment where you realize that life isn’t going to map itself out for you. That there isn’t a clear, universal timeline. That the expectations you’ve internalized might not even be your own.

There’s fear in that, but there’s also something freeing.

Because if there isn’t a single “right” way to do this, then maybe I’m not doing it wrong. Maybe being unsure doesn’t mean I’m failing, it means I’m paying attention. It means I care. It means I’m trying to build a life that actually feels like mine, instead of just following a script.

So, am I having a quarter life crisis?

Maybe. Or maybe I’m just growing up.

Maybe this is what it feels like to stand at the edge of something new, without a clear map, and decide to move forward anyway.

And maybe that’s not a crisis at all. Maybe it’s the beginning of something honest.

The power of female friendship is nothing to underestimate. There is no way to describe it other than;

There’s a certain kind of magic when it’s us.
A group stitched together by memes, trust, and mild chaos.
We’re a mess, but we’re a unit — loud, loyal, and always late,
Flaky with plans, but when it comes down to it we are there.

We don’t always agree.
We cancel plans, we overshare,
we give advice no one takes—
but we show up, again and again.

We’ve held each other through breakups, breakdowns,
job losses, drama,
the slow unraveling of identity in your mid 20s.
And somehow, we’ve laughed through most of it.

This friendship is not about always being available,
or always knowing what to say.
It’s about the quiet knowing
that someone, somewhere,
is ready to remind you of who you are,
when you forget.

And honestly?
That might be everything.

Dear, Apartment Number 4.

Oh how you were good to me. You are the place where I grew. The place I became an adult. The place where I realized who I really was.

Through hardships and good times, you were always there for me. Offering me a safe space when the world got too tough.

You saw me through some of the darkest nights. The nights where the silence felt heavy, where the weight of uncertainty pressed down harder than usual. I battled thoughts I never voiced out loud, cried tears I didn’t always understand, and questioned where I was heading. Some mornings, even getting out of bed felt like a quiet act of bravery. But even then, you stood still around me; walls that never judged, floors that held my steps no matter how heavy they were.

But within those same walls, I also found light. I laughed…really laughed. I danced barefoot in the kitchen at 2 a.m., spilled coffee on the oak floors during deep conversations, and sat on the floor with people who would go on to become some of my best friends. We shared late night takeout, made memories out of nothing, and reminded each other that even in the messiness of life, there is beauty. You were the backdrop of so many moments that I’ll hold onto forever.

Apartment Number 4, you weren’t just four walls and a door. You held space for my growth, my healing, my joy, and my mess. And while I’m moving on, closing this chapter with a mix of sadness and gratitude, I’ll never forget you.

Thank you for being my home when I needed one most.

With love,
Me.

Introductions are hard as they are, let alone when you’re sharing something you hold close. When we decide to put ourselves out there—our thoughts, our work, our weird little obsessions—it shifts. It no longer belongs just to us. It starts to live out in the open, where others can interact with it, interpret it, and maybe even find a piece of themselves in it.

This blog is my corner of curiosity. A space where the past and present meet—where you’ll find reflections on what’s happening now, stories from the archives of history that deserve a second look, and glimpses into my creative world: art, writing, and ideas that don’t quite fit into a single category. It’s all a bit eclectic, a bit experimental, and constantly evolving—just like I am.

If you’re here, welcome. I hope you find something that sparks your curiosity, makes you pause, or simply entertains you for a moment. Thanks for stepping into this little corner with me.