I thought I’d feel more established by now.

I thought I’d feel more established by now.

I used to think there would be a point when my decisions stopped feeling provisional. I’m beginning to suspect I gave that point an unrealistic job description.

I’m 28, and apparently old enough to put something on the wall without knowing how long I’ll live there.

Still, I hesitate.

I think about getting a canvas, finding a place for it, making the room feel a little more like mine. Then comes the thought: Isn’t that a bit of a waste? What if I move?

As though putting something on a wall is a promise to stay.

So I leave it. I can decorate properly when I know where I’m going to end up.

There is, of course, no confirmed date for that. A surprising amount of my life still feels like a temporary arrangement. Somewhere to live for now. A job that makes sense for now. Decisions I’ve made sincerely, then quietly attached an exit clause to.

I thought being settled would feel more obvious. That I’d eventually choose a place or a direction and stop mentally checking the alternatives.

Instead, I reach something I wanted, and before long I’m wondering what comes after it.

Work is like this too. I can spend ages wanting the next opportunity, putting effort into getting there, imagining how good it will feel. Then I arrive, get used to it, and begin thinking about another job. Another place. Something that might fit a little better.

The strange part is that wanting those things was real. I wasn’t pretending to care about the life I now have. I chose it. I worked towards it.

I just expected arriving to last longer.

Sometimes I can’t tell whether I genuinely want a change or whether I’ve become so used to having a next step that I feel uncomfortable without one. Looking ahead gives me something to organise my thoughts around. There’s a particular comfort in imagining a life I haven’t had to live on an ordinary Tuesday yet.

A new place still has all its possibilities. A new job hasn’t become familiar. I can picture myself feeling different there, without knowing very much about who I’d actually be.

Meanwhile, the life in front of me has laundry in it.

I don’t want to dismiss the part of me that’s curious. I like that I can imagine starting again. I want to keep being someone who considers a different city, a different direction, a decision that doesn’t make perfect sense on paper.

But I’m getting tired of treating the present as somewhere I’m passing through.

There’s always a reason to wait before getting comfortable. Until I know whether I’m staying. Until work feels right. Until I can say, with a confidence I seem to expect only from myself, yes, this is where I’m supposed to be.

I keep wondering when that feeling arrives. Whether other people have it, or whether they’re hanging things on their walls with just as many unanswered questions.

I’m beginning to suspect I gave that point an unrealistic job description.

I expected “feeling established” to make me certain about my decisions, satisfied with my work, happy with where I lived, and considerably less interested in starting over. Ideally all at once, sometime before now.

That’s quite a lot to ask of an age. Or a job. Certainly of a rented room.

I don’t know where I’ll end up. At 28, I’d hoped that sentence would bother me less than it does.

For now, there’s a space on the wall where I think a canvas would look good. I might start there.