Pace: It’s not flashy like an inside-out-forehand up the line. It probably won’t suspend breathing in the entire stadium, clay exploding from the court in chaotic, flying flecks. Yet it is, to me, one of the most mesmerizing elements of tennis, one that forever guides me to the inevitable “tennis-as-life/life-as-tennis” comparison that gives the game and reality an opportunity to enter in conversation.

Per my recent decision to run the Des Moines Half Marathon and my tendency to ruminate on the psycho-emotional experience of playing tennis, I’ve recently been thinking a lot about pace. It is the product of control, the result of not one planned, executed shot but many; beauty, defined, in my world.

Tennis has a magical habit of subtly leading me to real-life revelations, the kind I probably couldn’t face without the natural metaphoric power of sport.

There seems to be some distinct, socially sanctioned pace of adulthood, one that I, as fledgling grown-up girl, should instinctively know. In tennis, I can determine the pace of the match; I’ve always liked that about it. The player who controls the pace is generally the player who wins the match.

For a long time, pace in my life felt completely disconnected from pace in tennis. For once I couldn’t find an organic link between my beloved game and my existence beyond it. Tennis had long been my go-to gateway to reflection and self-discovery.

In particular, I kept feeling overwhelmed and bombarded by a single question, the menacing post-grad replacement for, “What are you doing after college?” It surprised me, though maybe it shouldn’t have: “What’s your five-year plan?”

I didn’t (and still don’t) have a five-year plan, and immediately, I felt behind, as if lacking some concrete, bullet-pointed plan meant I hadn’t really achieved pseudo-adult status.

But I think I was more afraid to say I’m happy where I am, and I want to stay here — for a while, anyway. I’m working at an amazing company. I get paid to do cool things like climb on dinosaur exhibits and discuss models of Jupiter made from chocolate cake. Right now, I’m content where I am, and I’m reflecting on it all the while.

That epiphany business is great, but I admit I was long bothered by the lack of an innate connection between tennis and my latest 20-something existential crisis. Then I realized winning in tennis is contingent not only on deciding my own pace but neurotic present-ness, too.

When pro players talk strategy for their next match, “one shot at a time,” “in the moment” rhetoric inevitably surfaces. Don’t think about the title, the trophy, the rebel thrill of writing on the TV lens with your favorite pink Sharpie (come on, admit it, that looks fun); throw every ounce of energy and focus into the present hit. That’s it.

Well, that’s where I am in life right now, too. I’m throwing my energy and passion into my work, my volunteering, my running and my tennis. Will I write my five-year plan eventually (alphabetized and color-coded, of course)? Yeah, I will. But for right now, I’m cool with my own pace and my own neurotic present-ness.

I wish I could tell you I write best at some colossal, oaken desk with a Tiffany lamp tossing multicolored shadows on charmingly worn paper. That was novelist-wannabe Taylor’s mental portrait of a “real” writer, anyway.

Writing owned a certain glamour then. It was something fancy, something many would aspire for but few would realize. I grew up throwing that little word in front of “writer” — “aspiring,” that is. Without the looming desk and the dim study, without the crinkled paper, I couldn’t be a “writer.”

When I reached college, though, writing became not some distant goal but a conscious act of survival.

And survival sure as hell isn’t always pretty. It means sitting on the floor with a fourth mug of Earl Grey at my side. It means mumbling, “Michel Foucault, I hate you. But I kind of love you, too. Damn it.” It means composing a cliché rant following some “end of the world” (but not really) heartbreak — and having the good sense to revisit it with my red pen and briefly abandoned logical self.

As I slowly traded my idealized portrait of the “writer” for my own messier reality, I let go of that little word altogether. I am not an “aspiring” writer.

I am a writer; I always have been. And I don’t need a gargantuan desk or a best-selling novel to tell me who or what I am. Writing is my source of income, yes, but above all it’s a source of survival and a state of being.

“Be yourself.” The emblem of a Millennial pick-me-up. I remember tanking the shoe kick (a real event, I swear) at fourth grade Track and Field Day. As a token of my failed sneaker fling, I received the, “Be yourself!” ribbon. Those two little, well-meaning words remain etched in my mind, a permanent fixture of growing up in the ‘90s — yet I sometimes abandon them, replacing “me” with a fictional portrait of what others want.

I’ve learned a lot since graduating from college in December. For example, baking cake for dinner is one of those things that sounds like a good idea until you nearly set the oven on fire, try the finished product, realize it’s too sweet and reach for that sensible granola bar in your time of regret.

I’m also better at detecting when I’m not being myself. Typically when I’m trying to impress someone.

I often reflect on how I represent myself in person versus on the Internet. On Twitter, I proudly proclaim my myriad interests, posting photos of the latest page in my Arabic notebook, that glowing (and frightening) picture of blonde Roger Federer, news on the rapidly deteriorating status of free speech in Turkey.

Yet when meeting someone in person, I find myself hiding all of the above, deeming my interests “too out there” for public consumption.

“Be yourself,” it seems, is as difficult at 22 as it was in elementary school, something no number of shiny ribbons or inspirational posters can truly instill in you. In a conscious effort to be more “real,” more like myself, I’ve made tangible lifestyle changes.

I no longer straighten my hair, its naturally chaotic state a daily reminder that it’s OK to be my naturally chaotic self.

I give myself permission to write terrible first drafts, make that cringe-worthy tennis pun and get a little overzealous with the em dash. Though none of the above will wind up in the final piece (probably for the better), there’s something raw and beautiful about capturing the self, unedited, suspended in a specific moment and frame of being — one that will never again manifest in exactly the same way.

“29 Llamas That Just Can’t Even.” “42 Ways Istanbul Is So Beautiful It Actually Hurts.” I’m a sucker for “life-changing” cat pictures, “You won’t believe it!” headlines and some Kardashian’s week on Instagram.

But I’ve stopped clicking those “23 Things Every Girl Should Have/See/Experience By [Insert Arbitrary Age].” Milestones aren’t contingent on Facebook life events or existing a certain number of years on Earth; I determine my own milestones on my own timeline.

“Being yourself,” I’ve realized, is a lifelong journey, one in which I’m bound to simultaneously make progress and make mistakes. One where derpy llamas, beautiful Turkish mosques, the fourth-grade shoe kick and blonde Roger Federer (may his bleached presence never again grace this Earth) can coexist.

You are enough.

Teenage Taylor probably made that her cellphone banner (remember how critical it was that your cellphone banner captured the complexity of your existence?). It sounds like something you might find on Pinterest in black, bold text on an over-filtered photo of some natural wonder.

Yet I tell myself, “You are enough,” every day, and sometimes I admit I don’t believe it. For a long time, I avoided the realm of cliché, Instagram bio-worthy quotes. I have a degree in English; I should be meandering secondhand bookstores plotting my rise as the next great literary theorist, not thumbing through pages of, “When it rains, look for rainbows. When it’s dark, look for stars.”

But when something recently collapsed without warning, without a “why,” I found myself back in the syrupy sweet underworld of motivational one-liners, my tea mug and melodramatic mood in tow. Even when I reunited with my sensible side, I found comfort in generic quotes.

I’ve long publicly sneered at them; I’m too sophisticated, too cultured for that trite rubbish, after all.

Yet here I am, scrolling through the list of them in my phone, searching for brief confirmation that I’m not failing my whole family for whatever inadequacy nagging me today — that I’m still single, that my interior design concept is a wall of crooked tennis posters, that Facebook is cluttered with engagement ‘life events,’ and I’m over here like, “I tried to put Up-Down tokens in the coin laundry the other day.”

When I read those three little words, “You are enough,” I’m at peace. I rediscover the power of perspective. I realize there’s no timeline, that Roger Federer is a badass decorating motif and I have a valid excuse to play Centipede in the near future.

And that’s enough for me.

“Books.” “Office supplies.” “Picture frames/Turkey souvenirs.” My entire life rests in boxes and their corresponding labels, it seems. Memories, portraits, friends, experiences, failures and triumphs neatly organized in one- or two-word labels, quieted inside each cardboard cocoon.

Between moving out of my college apartment, back to my childhood home, then to my new apartment downtown, along with the recent rearrangement of the office where I work, packing and rifling have practically defined the early era of my post-grad life.

Moving unnerves and exhausts me — but I can’t blame stair-climbing or lifting part of it. My mind naturally and somewhat cruelly shifts from, “Where should this go?” to, “Where has this been?” And without warning, I’m perched in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a lopsided ring of souvenirs, photo frames, blackmail-worthy childhood photos and handwritten cards from my little sisters.

Maybe if I put them in a neat, little circle, they’ll make more sense, feel less overwhelming. “That happened years ago. You should be over it by now,” I tell myself as I sit here, boxes and mementos surrounding me like a fortress of sorts. I know I should return to unpacking, alphabetizing, color-coding and organizing. Like the responsible, productive big kid I’m trying to become.

But there’s something about moving that makes the stillness sweeter, reminding me it isn’t a sign of laziness or in this case, procrastination, but a lifelong means of reflection — something I should pursue consciously.

I’m tempted to organize the mayhem, to put everything in its new place as quickly as I can to curb the blitz of memories. But adulthood, I realize, isn’t as much about an organization system or sophisticated décor (my father says Andy Roddick posters don’t count, by the way) as it is about integrating positive thought patterns and behaviors. About finding peace in stillness.

Awkward phases — I thought they were supposed to strike for a few relatively insignificant teenage years, provide valuable life lessons about self-esteem/time/patience and then leave us alone.

I suppose I should have expected otherwise, per the fact that I have my beloved Roger Federer poster hanging on one wall and the phrase “classy teal artwork” typed in my Google search bar. For the record, the “classy teal artwork” is entirely too pricey; until it comes on clearance, tennis is my interior design motif.

My newfound awkward stage is more nuanced/cerebral than teenage Taylor’s inability to tame her natural hair or that time my senior year Homecoming date ditched me for Dairy Queen (I know Blizzards are pretty great, but really?).

I’m trying to find my ground as a young professional — in public relations, a field I never expected I’d pursue, let alone love.

I’m in a weird place in terms of social circles. A bulk of my friends are finishing up their senior year of college, a world I left nearly three months ago. At YP events in Des Moines, I’m typically a minimum of four to five years younger than much of the group, deserving of eye rolls if I were to say, “When I was in school … ” yet unable to discuss graduate programs or promotions.

My physical home is the emblem of awkward. For over a week, my TV perched on one wooden stool, I on the other, watching sports in my otherwise empty apartment. I tried to hang a curtain the other evening and wound up with a bump on my head, a rod in two pieces and a pile of black-and-white fabric in a heap on the floor.

But maybe awkward phases aren’t a sign of inadequacy or forever-behind social status. Maybe they’re life’s natural way of reminding me not to get too comfortable.

Over-thinker — maybe it belongs up in the top-left corner with “Editor, Writer, Federer Fan.”

February has been a challenging month, leaving me, unfortunately, with ample opportunity to consider how I cope with bad news, both personally and in the workplace. Amid all my ruminating on the unfortunate, I’ve become more conscious of the things that bring me peace.

Now I’m not talking ‘peaceful’ — I can’t sit still, I talk entirely too quickly when I get excited and I once drank eight mugs of highly caffeinated tea in a day. I’m talking brief, even if fleeting moments of peace, moments when menacing, nagging feelings of inadequacy, doubt and worry fade, replaced with gratitude for the pure, beautiful things I rarely give due credit.

Tennis, strangely, is ‘peace’ defined in my world. There’s something starkly beautiful about the game. Without on-court coaching and crowded sidelines, tennis is a gorgeous spectacle of mental and physical athleticism.

Tennis is lonely, to quote Andre Agassi, but that’s why I find it comforting. No one else experiences the narrative of the game like the player, with fans, coaches, umpires and announcers perched high above, ball kids and photojournalists crouching below.

There is uncontested ownership of the tennis narrative you can’t find in any other sport, I argue. A profoundly internal game fit for the over-thinker in me. On the court, I can exist in my natural state of being, meditating and reflecting in peace without anyone invading my narrative.

Peace, for me, also exists in bookmarks and baked goods. Even as a professional communicator and writer, I sometimes have trouble telling others I care for them. Writing a custom Arabic bookmark or baking a batch of my favorite snickerdoodle muffins provides a tangible way to express it without the pressure of organizing my often-rambling thoughts.

I admit when I decided to blog tonight, I initially felt the urge to rant, to be negative, to linger on the disappointments and sad news of the past month.

But “over-thinker,” I realized, isn’t always a negative trait. Rather, it’s an opportunity to be mindful of that which I ponder relentlessly, almost painstakingly, at times.

Tonight I made a cognizant choice to over-think a few things that really bummed me out, yes, but I likewise made a choice to over-think the little moments of peace that pepper even the bad and ugly.

Much like the moment the umpire calls, “Quiet, please,” silencing all the heckling, booing and other sport-fueled angst. Then, finally, a beautiful narrative can unfold on the court.