The year that I was 35 concluded a chapter. If there are years that ask questions and years that answer, this was the latter. It closed the door on my youth -- nothing concrete, no new rules for how I live my life. I can still go out dancing or refuse to be serious or wear too much eyeliner or smoke a cigarette in Paris or whatever it is that we think we have to stop doing when we're not young anymore. But I am sick of the conversations -- internal and with other people -- about if we're young. Someone asked me on my birthday how I felt and I said, "grown." Eleanor is leaving the city and my little sister is having a baby and I don't long sustain a depressed mood or euphoria and my youth is over, except when Otis Redding sings, "young girls they do get weary."
The year that I was 35 I read interesting books. I went on two fairly massive trips to Europe, and I'm now realizing where all my money went -- the year I was 35, I didn't really get any more organized with money. But each felt like an important capturing of an opportunity to stay in a remarkable place, and each was worth the trouble.
The year that I was 35 I didn't get to spend as much time as I'd like with all my favorite kids, but I tried my best. I showed up to babysit Grace when her parents both needed to work one night and I took a plane trip with Elio and his parents.
The year that I was 35, describing my life felt less urgent, as evidenced by me writing this three days late, though it still felt satisfying and important, as evidenced by me writing this. The year that I was 35, I started describing myself as a writer in really confident terms. One night, in a fit of pique at a minor piece of disrespect someone had shown me, I described myself as, "one of the best writers in the country," which, while statistically a little true, was still a wild and heedless overstatement.
The year I was 35, I kept doggedly trying to run, through various injuries and heat waves and cold spells. I painted less but, I think, better.
The year that I was 35 I gradually came to realize that I was showing up places with more inner calm and confidence. I didn't have an epiphany or change completely. I was still anxious and loud and sometimes annoying. But I knew myself to be valuable and valued, to have qualities that others appreciate. I tried to follow up admissions of failure or flaws with, "but I have other valuable qualities."
The year that I was 35, I had to have hard conversations in my personal and professional lives, and I didn't die.
The year that I was 35, the tide turned in New York City and, maybe, a very little bit, everywhere. The Knicks won the championship. The year that I was 35 I became a Knicks fan. We got a good mayor. I gained back a little, a very little bit, of my hope and faith that there might be a good and joyful future to make together.
The year that I was 35 I went on a couple of dates, a couple of actually good dates! They went nowhere, but I was reminded good dates exist and I can go on them.
The year that I was 35, I loved culture. I loved Yesteryear and Heated Rivalry and Off Campus and Olivia Rodrigo and Widow's Bay. I loved things other people loved and was relieved.
The year that I was 35, I made new connections and friendships. I laughed heartily with strangers and greeted my neighbors and enjoyed the reduction in street harassment that comes from being 35. When I had a nice thought about someone, I tried to remember to text it to them.
The year that I was 35, my sister sent me a text about our mom that contained a turn of phrase that allowed me to put into words what I'd been realizing with my whole heart and body for a while. That no one showed me what it was to believe you have something to offer the people you care about. And so I've been a little behindhand. I've had to catch up. I've had to take some time to figure out what I have to offer and to have the confidence to offer it. And I'm not done. But I'm doing it, and I'm making self-actualization from scratch, and I'm proud of myself.
The year that I was 35 I was mostly very proud of myself, maybe even a little smug and overconfident. The year I was 35 I started calling myself the universe's favorite daughter and was barely even afraid someone would take it the wrong way and hold it against me. I saw a lot of art and made some art and fed chickens and fed toddlers and spent ever so much money on lattes and martinis and plane tickets. I took so many naps and received lovely notes in the mail and tried so so hard to believe there is nothing wrong with me that's different from everyone else and almost mostly succeeded.
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