At 28, the bird no longer flies as it did in its fledgling years, when the sky was a place of reckless exploration, with no clear direction but endless possibilities. By now, the bird has learned the rhythm of the wind, the balance of freedom and caution, and the weight of responsibility. It knows which branches are safe to rest on, which paths to avoid, and when to soar high to gain perspective.

In its 28th year, the bird is not just a creature of instinct, but of wisdom—earned through each storm it has weathered and each sunrise it has chased.

At this stage, the bird looks forward. It sees the vastness of the sky, not as something to conquer, but as a space of possibility. There are still new winds to follow and higher altitudes to explore, yet there is comfort in knowing that the sky will always be there—constant, expansive, and forgiving.

At 28, I hope the bird knows that the essence of its journey is not about how fast or far it can fly, but how gracefully it can navigate the ever-changing winds.