I’ve never been afraid of turning 30. If anything, I always felt like this was the age I was born to be. It’s a claim I made for years based entirely on the assumption that 30-year-olds prefer dinner parties to clubs, make relatively sound decisions, prioritize authentic friendships, and stay in on Friday nights because weeks are exhausting… and I can’t say I was entirely wrong?
Not only do I love a Friday at home, but I can genuinely say I’ve never felt happier, more confident in who I am, or more grateful than I do today. My twenties, like most twenties, was a time of enormous growth (read: a complete, flailing hot mess for at least the first half). Looking back at photos of myself in college is like trying to recognize myself beneath layers of insecurity, sorority head-tilts, and caked-on foundation. I was happy and had wonderful friends, but a lot of that was drowned out by the number of things I felt I should be doing. I always felt I should have more friends and, in a particularly odd choice, constantly tried to prove my happiness by doing things that made me unhappy. But if I entered my 20s flailing, I’m turning 30 with both feet planted firmly on the ground. Today and this weekend, I’m celebrating by doing only things I want to do.
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