There’s absolutely nothing out of my reach.

Make a list of things that were out of reach at nineteen and are unremarkable now. Driving at night. Ringing a stranger. Cooking for six without a rehearsal first.

None of them moved closer. Your arm got longer, incrementally, mostly through repetition you weren't keeping track of. Some things still need a decade of that before they come within range, and the wait is real. But the boundary has never once stayed where you last saw it, and it has only ever moved outward.