On my 28th birthday, I had a panic attack about turning 30. I had just gotten married, and I think I was scared of how my life wasn’t really anything like I’d wanted. I didn’t go to cosmetology school like I’d wanted to since I was 12 years old. I had just started a corporate sales job that I already hated. I had a few friends I never saw, and the people I did hang out with were my (ex-)husband’s friends, who I’d always felt never really liked me.
On my 29th birthday, I’d been working at the studio for four months and invited roughly forty people to come out for dinner–a few of my friends I thought could come, about 20 of ex-husband’s friends, and 15 or so of my new coworkers. While only a couple of my friends could make it, a small handful of ex’s friends came (the rest didn’t even bother to let me know they couldn’t make it). What really struck me was how many of my new coworkers showed up to celebrate with me. Maybe it’s because I’ve never worked in such a welcoming, inclusive environment, but it nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Today, I am 30 years old. I don’t feel it, and I’m not really sure that there will ever be a time that I actually feel like an adult (or what I think an adult should feel like). There are days where I pay my bills (the ones that aren’t on autopay, anyway), make a meal plan and grocery list, and go through my bank and credit card statements, and other days when I browse Pinterest in leopard print sweatpants and eat ice cream for breakfast. It’s a delicate balance.
I am extraordinarily lucky. I work in a job that I love, surrounded by amazing, talented people whom I am fortunate to call my friends. I have a place that’s all mine, and even with its imperfections, it’s home. I am healthy and have access to excellent medical care, should I need it.
I am loved, fiercely.