I turn 30 in an hour and a half.
I’m really struggling with it.
As much as I fancy myself a feminist - I feel like I’ve failed because I’m no where near close to having a sustainable relationship. (And it doesn’t have anything to do with society. It’s something that I WANT. I WANT a husband. I WANT to have children).
As much as I consider myself a competent person - I feel like I could be doing so much more with my life and my career.
As lucky as I know I am to have the steady income that I have at the age that I have - I see other people my age buying beautiful homes and taking amazing trips and I can’t help but feel like I have nothing to show for my work.
And on top of all of that - I’ve had 10 out of 20 people flake out on my birthday plans within the last 24 hours. And I know as I get older - the relationships I have with my friends will only become more tenuous and fleeting.
When I was a kid, I used to think it was so silly when my parents’ friends would fret about their age. I couldn’t understand why they cared about a number. I never saw them as a number. And now that I am an adult I understand...
It doesn’t have anything to do with the number.
It doesn’t have anything to do with the wrinkles, or the back problems, or the grey hair, or the extra pounds that you just can’t get rid of.
It’s the mourning of the loss of the life that you dreamed for yourself... that with every flip of the calendar page seems to become more and more impossible to achieve.
The number and the wrinkles and the grey hair - they’re just symbols of that.