When I was little, like many others, I wanted to be rich and famous. I wanted to make as much money as I possibly could.

Now, in my twenties, I want to make a trip through the mountains of Montenegro, exploring the rugged terrains of Durmitor National Park and the serene beauty of Biogradska Gora. I want to make work I can be proud of, that my colleagues can appreciate, that makes the world even marginally better than if it didn’t exist. I want to make my parents proud and make myself even prouder. I want to make mistakes—and make them mean something—and make my twenties not about what I earn, but about what I give, what I hold, what I dare to reach for. I want to make memories that stick like honey—slow and golden, stretching from one fingertip to another. I want to make my bed and make brownies for the people I love. I want to make people laugh and make awkward small talk with people I have a crush on. I want to make time for friends and make time for myself. I want to make my badminton smash impossible to return. I want to make something out of nothing and make nothing feel like everything. I want to make love—to people, to ideas, to the small and fleeting moments of life that matter most—so fully and generously that it fills every corner of my days, leaving behind only warmth, connection, and the quiet certainty that this is what I was always trying to make.