Another year older…
When I look back on weeks leading up to my 30th birthday, I have to laugh at myself. I was so vain and afraid of that dreaded milestone… As if my life would have no meaning outside of my twenties, as if the twenties represented the pinnacle, the highlight of my life. It felt very traumatic, but I can look back now and laugh about it.
Oh ye of little faith.
I turned 32 on Tuesday. 32. Two years past that dreaded birthday and I can honestly tell you that I’m loving my thirties. There’s such a sense of self about these years. I feel like not only have I grown into myself, but I actually like who I am.
I don’t know about you, but I felt like I had so much to prove in my twenties. Prove that I knew what I was doing, prove that I’d made the right decisions with my life, prove that my life mattered. I had an explanation for everything, arguments to win, and vast knowledge to share with the rest of the world. (Um, actually, I’m still like that sometimes.)
All that proving I had to do led to a pretty self-righteous, pious, and insecure life. For as much as I wanted the world to know how right I was, I was equally afraid that others would see right through me for the fraud that I was. For every answer I had, questions and doubt followed close behind.
However, within the past few years I’m finally feeling comfortable and liking who I am. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m ok with that. I no longer feel the need to measure my failures or successes against someone else. I like that I’m sassy, opinionated, and a little bit loud. I no longer feel like defending my parenting decisions or passing judgment on another who parents differently than I do.
Now don’t mistake what I’m saying. Just because I’m comfortable in this skin, doesn’t mean that I’m not comfortable with all my failings. I seem to be even more aware of areas that I need to work on, and I find a deeper desire to smooth out those rough edges.
But, overall, the thirties are being good to me.