On Christmas Day my brother and I went for a run. This was a monumental thing for two reasons. 1) If you’d asked me the previous Christmas to even just go on a short walk, I would have declined. Noooo, thank you! A run? Total madness! However, having started running in February, my hate-love-hate affair with running is one of the most significant relationships I’ve had this year. 2) I’d essentially emotionally blackmailed my brother into running with me. I’m slower than him and was aiming for a shorter distance. He was also in charge of the roast potatoes (which were exceptional btw) so was short on the time a run with me would actually require. However, I’d made him feel sorry enough for me that it was happening – although not enough to wear the Christmas hats…

So, we set off for a run. There’s a photo and everything. Except, 100m in I realised that even though it was Christmas Day, Santa/The Gods Of Running, had not gifted me with enough fuel in the tank for today’s run. Especially not at the fast (for me) extremely slow (for Matt) pace that we had agreed on. And so, loving and self-sacrificial sister that I am, I told him to go on without me. Whilst I was determined to complete my run, I didn’t want to slow him down any further and knew I’d need to focus on myself to get there. After double checking that I was sure, he set off and I carried on my crawl – now with headphones blasting my Musical Theatre Running playlist (DM if you want to listen…)

A few minutes later, as the route became slightly steeper, I could see Matt in the distance. Near enough to see, but definitely far beyond my capacity to reach. It made me feel sorry for myself, that I try so hard at running only to remain totally adequate. Then, as these things do spiral, I started to thing about how often I felt like this in my day-to-day life, failing to catch up with others as they’re far ahead of me.

Aged 32, it regularly feels that I’ve fallen behind my peers. I’m single and very much stuck in the trenches of dating. I rent a room out and am far from owning my home, especially one in the city I love. I have mixed feelings about my job and whether it’s what I’m meant to do. I love writing, but I’m currently no further with it on a professional level than I was a decade ago. I taunt myself with the idea of writing a book, but consistently talk myself out of it and the various ideas I have. And let’s not even go there with the literal biological ticking clock and if/when/how I want kids.

Just as I watched my brother literally run on ahead, I am watching him and so many of my loved ones do the same metaphorically. As my friends increasingly couple up and make these huge personal leaps, I’m thrilled for them and the abundance of love in the world. But sometimes I also feel really sad about it too, unsure of my choices and whether I’ve made the right turns, melancholy at the pit stops they are passing that feel so out of my own reach.

On my run, as I continued to wallow and brood, a more logical thought arrived. My brother and I were going to the same place. Eventually, different routes and times aside, we would both return to our parents’ house. One of us might return having explored more (him) whereas the other totally knackered (me) we may have gone on separate journeys, but we’d eventually end up home. We were headed in the same direction, each making our own achievements – they would just look different from each other.

Lambasting my choices, being sad for the reasons touched upon in my Dating Unwrapped, and being self-piteous that a reciprocal romantic relationship hasn’t arrived yet (touch wood, fingers crossed, eating 12 grapes on NYE etc…) doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen and it doesn’t make my own personal journey any less valid. My route doesn’t necessarily look like that which my friends are undertaking, it may not look how I always imagined or hoped, but it doesn’t make it less beautiful or exciting or fulfilling. And, all being well, I’ve only just started getting going on this adventure; who knows what’s on the horizon!

Carrie Bradshaw was 32 at the start of Sex In The City.

Lorelai Gilmore was 32 at the start of Gilmore Girls.

Bridget Jones was 32 at the start of Bridget Jones Diary.

Baby, my story is just getting started.