I'm turning thirty: on the lessons of my twenties and the pressure to have it all figured out

It’s finally here, and (spoiler) I'm excited about it!

It’s here: the identity-shaking decade of my thirties, the time where nearly all of us, at some point in our lives, believed we would have it all figured out. As a new decade of life settles in ahead of me, I can’t help but think about the last ten years, where I thought I’d be, what unexpected life events crept up along the way, and at the end of it all, how grateful I am that I’m here, now, celebrating another year of life.

There is only this one life, and today I get to experience another day of birdsong, sunshine on my skin, and listening to the laughter of friends and family. Who says I’m not rich?

What I learned in my twenties

Life doesn’t necessarily happen the way you think it might. In our youth, we have only our environment and our current knowledge of the world as our guidebook. On the cusp of my twenties, I didn’t yet know just how much my life would change. At that time, I knew I was going to university for Environmental Science (I ended up listening to my heart and transferring schools for Creative Writing, more on that later). Despite pursuing sciences, I had dreams of becoming a published author and an actor. I’d likely find a partner, marry, and have children by the time I was thirty. I lived in a town where this was the common trajectory to take, and didn’t think much else of it.

But not a year later, my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer, an event that sent me into a decade-long spiral of grief and questioning. Death and mortality became a very real part of my life, forcing me to second guess everything about my identity, my beliefs, and the meaning of it all.

Although I transferred universities to apply for a competitive creative writing program, I didn’t get in. At the time, I took that to mean I was a bad writer (which I probably was) and that I would never publish (which is silly, I just needed to keep practicing).

My dad didn’t live to meet the love of my life, or see me get graduate, or get married.

I left the film industry. I’m not a famous actress.

I don’t have children at thirty, and I don’t own a house.

And… I’m okay. I’m happy. My life is more expansive and interesting than I ever would have expected, and if I can hope for anything in my thirties, it’s that I keep expanding, growing, and uncovering new and unknown paths for my future.

Life is terrifyingly beautiful and terrifyingly painful, all at the same time. If grief has taught me anything, it’s that it exists as proof of the extraordinary love we felt. It’s sad to say, but life is worse without my dad in it. Seven years after his death and I can say confidently that it always will be, and it’s because he’s not here. But that doesn’t mean that life is not still beautiful and that deep and true happiness cannot be felt. It just means that that beauty shines less without him here.

Rejection is a part of life. You won’t get a yes the first time you try. It doesn’t mean you aren’t worthy or deserving. Sometimes it means the situation isn’t right, sometimes it means you need more life experience. Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise. Becoming comfortable with rejection is like a secret weapon, and each time I return to that, I remind myself how powerful confidence can be in taking steps towards my goals.

When I was rejected from the creative writing program at my university, I really took that to mean that I was not a good writer. It was only after finishing my degree in English Lit that I realized how underprepared I was in my application to that program. As someone who’d taken their first three semesters in sciences, I’d been going up against people who’d had two years of creative writing at a university level under their belt, with help from professors to prepare their portfolio. That, and I simply wasn’t ready at that time. I wish I could go back and hug that version of myself, and to remind her that my writing would only grow with time, practice, and life experience, and that everything was going to be just fine.

Time with family and friends is more important than anything. More important than work. There is always more money to be made, but you cannot get more time. I spent a lot of my twenties wishing to escape to other places, wondering how I could patch that aching feeling in my chest, all to realize that that aching was wanting the company of my loved ones.

You can’t escape regret, but can choose how you react to it. When I learned my dad was ill, I made it my personal mission to ensure I said everything I needed to say when the time came (I write more about that in my personal essay Loss makes spectres of us all). As it turns out, there are some situations in life you can’t plan for, no matter how much you try. There are moments I regret. Regret is apart of being human.

Contentment is the goal, not happiness. Sadness, happiness, anger, regret, fear, grief are all inescapable emotions of life. I spent so much of my twenties trying my hardest to be happy and being miserable as a result. I wasn’t satisfied with my current situation, or I didn’t like my job, or I didn’t have enough money, and on and on. We can’t always change our circumstances, but changing how we think about them can make all the difference.

Lately, I’ve been aiming not for happiness, but for contentment and that sense of peace you find in silence and in a clear mind. I find myself content most when I’m making a healthy meal from scratch, when I’m not rushing through one task to get to the next, and after an intense workout where I could do nothing else but focus on my breath to get me through.

Life shouldn’t be taken too seriously. There is so much more to life than your twenties, and thirties, and forties. We’re only here for a short time. Enjoy the unexpected late night. Say yes to making plans with your friends.

What I hope for in my thirties

When I think of life passing, I worry about the stories I haven’t yet read, of the people I haven’t met, the knowledge I don’t yet hold, and the places I haven’t seen. There are so many different kinds of lives being lived. I want to hear about them all.

Some things I hope to create space for in my thirties:

✺ prioritize mindfulness and presence; enjoy time and worry less about whether I’m spending it just right

✺ find cause to celebrate more; bake cakes for birthdays; bake cakes for wednesdays; bake cakes just to bake cakes

✺ spend waaaaay less time on social media and online… and perhaps cut ties with it altogether (apart from this wonderful corner of the internet, of course)

✺ continue to build a strong community, strengthen relationships with my friends and family; help others; volunteer my time to give back

✺ enjoy and create art

✺ write always because I love to write, not because I feel I need to

✺ be open to change, to learning, and to reinventing

We are so profoundly lucky to be alive. Every wrinkle, laugh line, scar, stretch mark, and grey hair is physical proof that we have accumulated precious time on this earth. I no longer want to hear people pretending/joking they are younger than they are or avoiding their birthdays as though it’s not important. Screw the patriarchy and the harmful and unrealistic beauty standards held up to women. We are not here to be beautiful for men to look at. Our purpose is not in the smoothness of our skin or in our reproductive organs. To think so is an obvious signal of fearing what women accomplish when we are not diminished.

To age is to watch time map memory across our resilient skin, each line evidence of a thousand embraces, fits of laughter, shared smiles, and all the days a body has spent on earth. Wrinkles are keepsakes, in that way, a coveted heirloom, if time gives you long enough.

To age is to experience the future unknown bloom into a tangible, beautiful, heartbreaking reality. It’s stepping into moments that once, years ago, may have seemed horrifying, and meeting a reflection that is ready, brave, present, and grown.

To age is to absorb all there is to know, and there is so much. The more learned, the more there is to learn—that is life’s great trick, the gotcha that holds both grief and gratitude in one hand, together.

There will always be more, but our little life must always end. To age is to know wonder, magic, love, and loss.

To age is to be alive, and that is truly a gift.

Until next time,

Meg