My Thirty Year

I turn thirty-one tomorrow. I had a lot of ideas about what thirty should or would look like for me. So much so that imagining past thirty wasn’t something I ever really did growing up. It was always “these are the things I want to have accomplished and be by thirty,” and the rest was a question I didn’t even try to form. It’s made me think a lot about what comes after happily ever after.

A lot of not being able to imagine past thirty came from being raised by my grandmother, who was sixty-three when she became my guardian, after my mother passed away at thirty-five. The years of womanhood between the ages of thirty and sixty felt like a mystery. I had clear goals for thirty but not beyond. The goals:

-A career. And a successful one at that. Preferably in modeling. Maybe in writing.

-Marriage. A hopeless romantic since birth, I couldn’t imagine not being married by thirty. I personally wanted it, but for so much of my youth, the need to prove myself as a lovable disabled person always felt glaring.

-A house. A fully accessible oasis that I could fill with clothes and my mother’s art collection. A pool with a chair lift, a roll in closet, the most wheelchair friendly bathroom you’ve ever seen, a lush garden.

-Living abroad for multiple years. Studying abroad was such an integral part of my late teens and early twenties, where my perspective on the world and my senses of adventure and empathy expanded, and I craved more of that.

At thirty, I have achieved some of these dreams and still hope for others, but my perspective on the necessity of each for joy and fullness has shifted.

I spent the second half of my twenties tightly clinging to marker’s of identity. Model. Disabled. Wife. Content creator. Disability advocate. While these are all still parts of me, at thirty, I began reaching for something softer. I care much more about how I feel and what gives my life meaning, rather than tightly grasping on to labels.

I also spent the second half of my twenties thinking I had everything figured out. And I spent a lot of thirty realizing I don’t. Realizing that it is beautiful to exist in the unknown and to leave so much room for growth.

At thirty, I realize that my mother was just beginning her life. That thirty-five is not as old as I once thought it was. That she deserved so much more time. As I inch closer to thirty-five, I mourn her loss of time more deeply. I take the honor and privilege of aging more seriously than ever before.

I never imagined that I would feel vastly different at thirty than I did in my twenties. That I would have gained a profound bond of trust with myself. That I would spend a lot of time working through and healing trauma I thought had worked through and healed. That boundaries would become essential. I never imagined the ways in which I would feel like a woman and not a girl. A woman who is very protective over and endlessly loving of her younger self.

For so long, thirty felt like an end for me. Thirty felt like the goal. Now I realize that thirty really is the beginning in a way no other age ever has been. I am tearing up as I sit here and say thank you to thirty, for surprising me in ways I never expected. As I enter thirty-one, I am no longer terrified of the unanswered questions, of the expanse between thirty and sixty. In fact, I’m excited for it.