How I Really Feel About Turning 30

I don't remember much about my 20th birthday. Other than a picture of Alex and I wearing short dresses and over the knee Stu's (so 2015) in our parents' first NYC apartment, there isn't much evidence it even happened. Entering your twenties feels casual, a brief layover between the milestones of 18 and 21. But leaving them? It feels monumental.

And that's because the script we’re handed is simple: by thirty, you’re supposed to know who you are, what you want, and who you’ll do it with. If you don't, that voice creeps in: you’re behind.

As I got closer to 30, I felt that pressure in a way that was impossible to ignore. Sharp, heavy, occasionally terrifying. Some years were especially lonely – 27, 28 – when I cried myself to sleep more nights than I'm proud to admit. Each engagement or wedding made me feel like I was missing not just a partner, but my ticket to participate -- in adulthood, in progress, in whatever stage everyone else seemed to be in. It’s a strange kind of grief, mourning milestones you haven’t reached: the job you thought you’d have by now, the city you thought would feel like home, the version of yourself you imagined you’d be. Watching friends move further down paths you’re not on can make you question your own. I didn’t handle it gracefully — I cried, compared, spiraled.

But I kept going because, really, that’s the only option. I showed up for my friends – genuinely happy for them, even when it stung a little afterward. I poured myself into work, into creative side projects, into anything that reminded me I still had drive and direction. I started saying yes to new people, new places, new versions of myself -- even when it felt awkward or performative at first. And somewhere along the way, the ache softened. Life didn’t suddenly make sense, but it started to feel like mine again. Turns out it was less about catching up and more about catching my breath.

So here I am, just a few days into my 30s, to tell you the real gift of this decade: realizing the deadline was fake all along. No buzzer sounds, no curtain drops. Nothing explodes. Life just keeps going – and suddenly you see the freedom in that. Leaving my twenties feels monumental not because I've checked every box, but because I’ve stopped believing the boxes matter. This past decade was for stumbling, spiraling, surviving. My thirties? They’re (hopefully) for confidence and clarity.

So, no, thirty isn’t the end. You’re not old, and you’re not behind. Turns out, the milestone isn’t thirty. It’s realizing you get to write your own script.