As I begin to write this, I am 29 years old, and I am turning 30 in around 60 days. It is June 26. I am impatient to write this post, because I don’t want to forget everything I want to say, so I’m starting now. Everything you’re about to read has been written over the course of the last two months, so it may not seem cohesive. This is a big pile of words about how I feel as I approach and turn 30.
I’ve always had an obsession with time, my fixation oscillating between the past and the future. I think I have always viewed the present as the eye of a storm, and I can’t operate in such an untrustworthy peace. What I mean to say is I am terrible at living in the moment.
I inherited a bone-heavy sentimentality from my mother. I find symbolism in everything. I can quickly tether any present conditions or circumstances to those of the past, and I see patterns everywhere. I’m recently obsessed with observing synchronicities, which I believe is as spiritual as I’ll ever be. I was also blessed/cursed with the ability to remember very specific events, dates, facts, and (unfortunately) wrongdoings from times long gone, and I often place my own value in being able to recall these very specific (and mostly unnecessary) details when it comes to relating to others. All of this is to say it is in my nature to want to reflect and place symbolism in something such as entering a new decade.
First, I want to address that it is such a unique experience to get to reflect on the last ten years. Not only is it a gift to have years upon which to reflect, but it is the first decade I can recall with complete lucidity. I don’t know how I would have written something like this as a 20 year-old, since the leap from age 10 to age 20 is characterized by a stupid amount of change inherent to that time that it feels ridiculous to even acknowledge.
I will say, though, that I spent a lot of my twenties wishing away my existence. I wished away time, I pictured all of my lived minutes as receipts, a heavy wind ripping them from my overstuffed hands—all of this evidence that I had been here more than long enough would flutter away, and I would laugh at my empty hands.
But I was not a resident in this abysmal place, rather it was a resident within me. I didn’t realize, until I was around 28 or so, that I wasn’t this depressed, anxious, traumatized person, but a person who carried depression, anxiety, trauma. I realized I could have all of these huge feelings about the non-necessity of my existence while simultaneously trying to exist to the best of my ability.
I wasn’t a big birthday person until last year, at least when it comes to my own birthday. I always love to celebrate friends’ birthdays, and when it came to my own birthday, I had high expectations that I never voiced, so I was always ultimately let down by the time the day ended. But last year, my long-distance (</3) best friend Brizzy came to town, and we did my favorite things all weekend—thrifting, going to the art museum, hitting the lake every day. We made my own vegan birthday cake and had some of my closest friends meet at my favorite pizza place (Harlow’s in Lakewood). We ended the night with my homemade cake in the comfort of my dining room. I’d never had such a good birthday, and it had nothing to do with the day itself or the weight of each of these 24 hours being designated to ensuring my comfort and joy.
I think I have such fond memories of my 29th birthday because I had finally opened myself to the possibility that it could be…a good day. It was my first birthday in Cleveland after having spent my last few living in Columbus (which I loathed and is a topic for another day). I finally felt safe. I had the job I’d worked hard to get, I lived in a house in a neighborhood I adored (and still do). And I had finally felt reassurance that I could invite the people I loved into my space and they would respond enthusiastically. I trusted that what I had invested in them, they would also invest in me, and I could redistribute energy I may have wasted on people who didn’t reciprocate. I think a huge lesson of the last few years is that, while it’s my inclination to believe something could go wrong at any second (shout out OCD), I can also believe in the possibility that something could go right at any second (big thanks to my therapist for revealing an antidote for what OCD makes me believe).
I feel like I’ve changed a lot since my last birthday, though I can’t pinpoint how, maybe because I am in the throes of some unnamed shift (some more spiritual people may call this my Saturn Return, which started in March of this year), or maybe because I am simply adapting to the changes around me. I also recognize that I may feel so much dissonance because I am closer to who I will be than to who I still consider myself to be, which is a terrified, anxious open wound of a 22 year-old. I am nearer to my early thirties than I am to my early twenties. Oof. Anyway, each year comes with more tools, more wisdom, and more data, and I think that’s enough to look forward to, for now.
I’ve done a lot of reflecting here, but I’m going to say that in this moment, which I am now writing on the morning of my 30th birthday, I feel more alert than I have in a while.
Thanks for being here <3
happy birthday!! 💞
it's a breath of fresh air for a "terrified, anxious open wound of a 23 year-old", who's only starting the healing journey ❤️🩹
happy birthday, dear! wishing you all the best in the world 🌱