I turned thirty with less fanfare than I imagined.
No rooftop party. No profound realization. Just a quiet morning, cold coffee, and a few texts from people who still had my number.
At twenty, I had a checklist. I don’t know where it came from — movies, friends, some vague cultural blueprint — but I carried it like scripture.
By thirty, I was supposed to have: - a house (with white walls and wood floors), - a job I actually wanted to tell people about, - someone who knew how I took my coffee, - a dog that behaved better than I do, - and the kind of peace that comes from having figured most of it out.
I have none of those things.
Instead, I rent a place that doesn’t get enough sunlight, I bounce between freelance projects, I sleep diagonally on a bed built for two, and my peace — if we can call it that — comes in short, hesitant waves.
And still... I’m okay.
It took me longer than I want to admit to realize that life doesn’t care about your timelines. That there’s no milestone police handing out tickets for being late to your own expectations.
When I was younger, I thought thirty meant stability — or at the very least, confidence. Like some switch would flip, and I’d suddenly know what I was doing.
But thirty came and nothing flipped.
There was no switch. Just me — same questions, same insecurities, maybe a better sense of which ones are worth listening to.
I’ve watched friends climb ladders I didn’t even know existed. I’ve scrolled past announcements of engagements, new homes, dream jobs, kids — all while reheating the same leftovers and trying to remember if I paid the electric bill.
It used to sting.
Not in a bitter way, just... quiet comparison.
Like I was missing an exit everyone else had seen but me.
But lately, I’ve started to let go of the idea that I’m behind.
Because behind what?
Behind whom?
We all start at different points. We carry different weights. And not all progress is visible.
Sometimes growth is a softer voice in your head.
Sometimes it’s not texting someone back.
Sometimes it’s just getting out of bed without needing a reason.
There’s a strange kind of freedom that comes when you stop trying to perform your own life.
When you stop chasing an image and start living in the blurry, imperfect version of now.
I don’t have the life I imagined at twenty.
But I’m slowly learning to want the life I have.
I’m learning to enjoy quiet mornings, even when the coffee’s cold.
I’m learning that peace doesn’t come from “figuring it all out” — it comes from realizing you don’t have to.
And maybe that’s what thirty really means.
Written with the lights off and the fridge humming in the background.