Samaa Burte Nadkarni

My suitemates and I are sprawled out across the common room, the lull of sleep slowly swirls into our lazy conversation. Somehow, the topic of my 21st birthday comes up, and amidst the friendly jabs from my barely-younger suitemates about me being a fossil, the reality of getting older hits me once again. But all of a sudden, the idea of 21 doesn’t seem all that bad, especially compared to the idea of turning 20. 

Turning 21 is often framed as a milestone of independence, but 20 is this weird liminal space where you’re supposed to have things figured out, yet you’re still holding on to pieces of your younger self. Maybe it’s the feeling of finally finding your peace at college or getting lost in your independence only to find your way back again, but 20 taught me a lot about the kind of adult I want to be. 

20 gave me a whip-lash crash course in making and losing friends. The bad news is, people change. Friendships, once familiar, warm and true, can subvert themselves into something alien. Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do about it but let go. The good news is, people change. In the generation of unfollow, mute and ignore, it’s easy to shroud second chances in anger and shove them into the dark corners of our minds. We convince ourselves that some bridges deserve to burn. But I’ve learned that forgiveness, when earned and given freely, can be a gateway instead of a wound. This year, it became my ticket to witnessing growth — the quiet kind that sneaks up in unexpected ways, like an old friend reaching out on a random Tuesday, their words softer, their presence familiar yet renewed. And the ones whose sincerity and evolution intertwined with mine? They ended up becoming family, the kind of people you call at midnight, when life falls apart and when it overflows with joy. And so, finding the equilibrium between forgiveness and boundaries made both loving and letting go a simple affair — an endeavor that should be a course credit in and of itself! 

Unironically, 20 taught me how much I need my mom. I was never a particularly rebellious teenager, but my teenage years thrummed with the thirst for independence, and the desire to experience the adult world myself. Now, having spent two years away from home, there are times where I want my mom to just tell me what to do again. 20 shifted my relationship with my parents. Somewhere along the way, friendship seeped into my bond with them. I became an equal. I loved the autonomy, but I also wanted to be a child again. At 20, Aai and Baba stopped being all knowing beings, but also people that were trying to figure life out — albeit a few levels above me. 

Now, 20 wasn’t all self-growth and nostalgia. Unfortunately, the 20 update included a pressure generator. The age that seemed like a far-off fever dream had finally descended, and I felt the impending doom of life defining decisions. Was I on the right track? Was I doing enough? Did I have enough achievements to wrap myself in when imposter syndrome came knocking? I did all the mental health things you’re supposed to do: deleted Instagram, ate a vegetable (no, it wasn’t a potato), took more challenging classes to stimulate my brain — but none of it stopped the frenzied rush to Do More With My Time. In adulthood, time became a scarce resource, and I wanted to try and make the most of everything. 

While the pressure and melodrama continue, I look out at the remainder of my twenties not with dread, but with a quiet confidence. Because if 20 was about anything, it was about learning to adapt — to shifting friendships, changing family dynamics and the creeping urgency of time. I know the next decade will come with plot twists, new characters and unexpected rewrites, but I also know that uncertainty no longer unnerves me the way it once did. If anything, 20 taught me that I can keep up. And that, somehow, is enough.