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When I turned 27 last year, I wrote that it had been the best year of my life so far.
Now, on the eve of my 28th birthday, I can happily say that again. This past year has been the best one yet and, hopefully, I’ll write that every October until I drop dead at 110.
My 27th year took me to some cool places.
I celebrated my brother’s wedding in New England and reunited with an old friend in old England.
I floated in a hot air balloon above 3,000-year-old settlements in Cappadocia, Turkey, and marveled at the perseverance of the human race. I walked through a ghost town in Chernobyl, Ukraine, and marveled at our ability to destroy it.
I spent days full of tacos in the anonymous crowds of Mexico City and days full of tacos with friends and family in the US. (I ate a lot of tacos.)
I finally bought a freakin’ kindle.
I didn’t get a job in Antarctica, but I haven’t given up hope that I’ll land one next year.
Slight North didn’t collapse under the pressure of almost half a million page views and I haven’t (yet) collapsed under the spectacular fear of failure that’s accompanied my leap to blogging full time.
I’m still living out of a 55-liter backpack.
I’m still in love with a bald man.
I’m still pretty terrified that the past three years have been a huge mistake.
I still can’t bring myself to regret it.
This article is part of the Dan and Di Series. Read the rest below: