Yesterday, I turned 30. And I couldn’t be more excited.
No one believes me when I say that. I few of my friends look at me like I’m going to break down. And my mom keeps asking me, “Are you okay? You sure? YOU ARE THIRTY! ARE YOU OKAY WITH THAT?”
My neighbor, whose age is such that I cannot broadcast it on the internet, told me that 30 was her hardest birthday, and that she had four kids by that age. Then she crossed her arms and gave me a sidelong glance. Was I going to break down? Was I going to cry and rent my graying hair?
My hair isn’t graying. And I’m really alright with my birthday.
I spent most of my 20s feeling like I had to get somewhere and prove something. I don’t think I got there. And I haven’t proved a thing. I’m still trying, but this decade, it’s not about proving anything. It’s not about making progress. The past five years have been a slow reveal that I am not all that, that the world does not spin on it’s axis around me. The sun doesn’t rise and fall with my triumphs and failures.
I’m just here. Doing what I love.
I think this next decade is going to be wonderful.
Also, I honestly feel like I get better looking with age. And it is my sincerest desire that this denial lasts until I die.
Here are some things I wrote recently:
Merging Families Over the Holidays for Mom.me
‘Why I Let My Daughter Believe in Santa Claus‘ for Mom.met