Thirty

I turned thirty with a celebration that echoed through every part of me.

I was thrilled to make it here—

to add another decade,

one where I finally have my shit together,

Allegedly.

No longer a twenty-something,

chasing versions of myself I would never become,

All the versions of me that had to be eradicated.

Now, I know who I am.

Not fully healed—

maybe never—

but no longer broken in the ways that used to bleed me dry.

I know what I want, what I will not tolerate,

and I genuinely love who I have become.

The path feels steadier now, clearer than it has ever been.

And yet, in that clarity,

I found something nobody though to warn me of—

loneliness.

Not the kind that comes from isolation.

because my friends are the great loves of my life—

the breath when I’m gasping for air,

the tether when I start to spin.

It's not that.

It’s the kind of lonely that seeps in when you know yourself too well

in a world where most people are only half awake.

It feels like living inside a fever dream—

constantly walking into your own darkness,

mending what others have shattered,

and realizing how rare that kind of courage is.

because most people will not go there,

they’re terrified of their shadows.

But knowing yourself this deeply comes with its own ache.

Because you still want softness—

to love and be loved,

to build,

to nurture,

to create life from love,

to hold tiny hands that carry pieces of your heart

and have your eyes.

You want the simple, sacred things:

board games on rainy nights,

shared frustration at the mundane,

someone to genuinely laugh with until it hurts,

To hold you when you cannot hold yourself together.

And yet, you can’t unlearn your standards now.

You can’t pretend you don’t know what you deserve.

So you wade through a sea of I’m not sure I’m ready for something serious texts,

and every half-effort feels like a ghost of what could be.

You’re tired—

not bitter, just exhausted—

from the wars you fought in your twenties,

the ones that taught you self-abandonment disguised as love.

This time, there will be no more shrinking.

No more settling.

So you face the truth:walking alone might be the bravest thing you’ll ever do.

Aging is strange that way.

I don’t fear death.

I don’t fear wrinkles or white hair or time.

I fear the quiet—

a life lived without a true partner to share it with.

Someone to hold my gaze when words run out,

to find beauty in the mundane,

to grow life beside me and whisper,

Can you believe we made this?