Jordan Beaven

Today I turn 25.

That feels big. Heavy. A little unreal.

I’ve now lived more of my life with mental illness than without it. That’s a strange thing to realise at 25. Some people measure their lives in milestones – school, relationships, careers, travel. I measure mine in services, admissions, survival.

There were birthdays I didn’t think I would reach.

I didn’t want to see 16.

There were others after that I wasn’t sure I’d make.

And at 22, when I jumped, I truly believed that was the end.

But it wasn’t.

Which makes 25 feel like a second life. One I didn’t plan for. One I’m not entirely sure how to live yet.

Three Birthdays in Hospital

This is my third birthday in hospital.

That’s hard to write.

Birthdays are supposed to be candles and chaos and being sung to badly. Mine have been medication rounds, care plans, ward corridors, and survival.

I feel behind.

People my age are building careers, moving in with partners, travelling, getting engaged, figuring out who they are. And I’m here — 25, disabled, a wheelchair user, losing parts of my vision because of a brain condition, navigating service changes that genuinely scare me.

I don’t know how to “catch up.”

Sometimes I don’t know if I ever will.

Living More With Illness Than Without

There is a quiet grief in realising that mental illness has shaped more of your life than anything else.

It shaped my education.

My independence.

My friendships.

My body.

My future.

It has taken things.

It has also forced a strength into me that I never asked for.

I am disabled now. That wasn’t part of the plan. The vision changes weren’t part of the plan. The hospital years definitely weren’t part of the plan.

But neither was surviving.

And yet here I am.

Grief and Gratitude

Today, on my 25th birthday, I am grieving what I feel I’ve lost.

The teenage years that were supposed to be carefree.

The early twenties everyone romanticises.

The version of me who wasn’t scared of the future.

That grief is allowed to exist.

But so is this:

I am proud.

Proud that I survived 16.

Proud that I survived 22.

Proud that I survived the nights that almost took me out.

I shouldn’t have lived past 22.

But I did.

A Quarter-Life Crisis

I keep joking that I’m having a quarter-life crisis.

But it genuinely feels like that.

Twenty-five feels like a checkpoint. A “what now?” moment.

The services I’ve known are changing. The safety nets are shifting. I’m scared of falling through gaps. I’m scared that I won’t ever catch up to people my age.

But maybe life isn’t a race.

Maybe it’s not about catching up.

Maybe it’s about rebuilding.

A Second Life

I call this my second life.

I’m not fully living it yet. Not outside hospital walls. Not with the freedom I want. But maybe 25 is the year I start.

Maybe this is the year I:

— Find things that make me feel alive again.

— Try new hobbies.

— Create more.

— Laugh more.

— Get out of hospital.

— Build a life that fits my disability instead of fighting it.

Maybe 25 isn’t about being where I “should” be.

Maybe it’s about beginning.

Today I am grieving.

I am scared.

I am hopeful.

I am proud.

I am 25.

And for now, that is enough.