So this is the big, looming threshold that, until recently, I was certain would arrive with a host of significant changes. And, guess what? It actually did. But these changes have come slowly, without much fanfare, and with so many growing pains — none of which I’d take back. It turns out, there’s no golden key to the land of The Real Adults.
“Thirty” sounds so sophisticated, doesn’t it? And yet the things I once viewed as “grown-up” are surprisingly absent. There’s no trophy, no sudden fluency in tax codes, and I still sometimes have that ridiculous feeling that someone, somewhere, should really be supervising all of this.
But there’s a strange relief in saying goodbye to my twenties — a decade of All Potential where every cross country move (I made 4), every night out, every questionable decision, and every dream was backed by a “but I’m in my twenties” clause. The twenties had their charm, but my God am I excited to — hopefully — feel a little more grounded.
Rumor has it that the best part of this new chapter is the license to care less. My twenties were littered with “I should”s — career choices I should make, drinks I should try, parties I should attend. Now, I’m starting to feel the freedom to listen to what I actually want, and it’s been surprisingly…quiet. It’s not that the desires and dreams have disappeared; they’ve just mellowed, simplified, and distilled themselves into something more honest.
I’m learning that not every “no” is a missed opportunity, and not every “yes” is a door opening to some grand new horizon. This decade already looks less like chasing and more like choosing. Choosing what I want to hold on to, and maybe more importantly, what I’m finally ready to let go of.