Member-only story
I’ve always had this idea of what it means to be thirty.
To me, thirty has always been more of a destination than an age. At age thirty, I would breathe easier, live freer, and understand the world more deeply. At age thirty, I would have my shit together and the wisdom to navigate the world less anxiously.
But then, suddenly, I turned thirty, and the destination intimidated me.
It left me feeling insignificant, and a little naive.
At age thirty, I was supposed to be an author. I was supposed to own a house. I was supposed to breathe easier and live freer.
I was supposed to know more, say more, do more, have more, be more.
Instead, at age thirty I had so much left to accomplish, and so much left to experience. But at the same time, turning thirty left me with a sense of peace, and I realized I could breathe a little easier.
At age thirty, I’m not where I pictured I would be and yet at the same time, I can feel I am exactly where I should be. I’m not an author but I still write. I don’t make as much money as I hoped I would but I get to be the mom to a healthy, beautiful baby boy. I still struggle mentally but I found therapy.
I don’t have my shit together but I’m thirty.
I don’t have my shit together but I’m worthy.
I don’t have my shit together but I‘m surviving.
And for now, that’s enough.
