Tomorrow, I turn thirty. It sounds so grown up, but it isn’t. People keep asking me how I feel about it, with tilted heads like it’s a bad thing. I don’t get it.
For me, being twenty was much scarier. I had no idea who I was or what I wanted. I spent a lot of time making unsuitable choices, trying to fit in and flitting from one thing to another. Don’t get me wrong, I did some wonderful things – I travelled, lived and worked in London and had a lot of fun – but I always seemed to be trying to be someone else.
Over the last year or so, I’ve finally started to accept who I am. I’m in a much better place than I was a decade ago.
I never had a plan of what I wanted to achieve by the time I was thirty, I just always assumed that by now I would have ‘achieved’ something. I imagined me with the ‘perfect’ husband and family, a ‘dream’ career and an ideal house. I don’t really have any of these, but what I do have is pretty amazing. I’m writing, finally getting my degree (better late than never, eh?) and I have the most perfect little boy in the world and a rather great boyfriend. So, am I depressed about the big 3-0? Nope. I’m actually happier than I have been in as long as I remember.