I turned 30, and let me tell you, I do not feel 30 at all. In fact, I have never felt younger, more energized, or more connected to myself than I do right now. Leading up to this milestone, there was far more anxiety than I expected. Thirty always seemed like one of those ages that belonged to other people. It sat somewhere in the distance, visible enough to acknowledge but far enough away that I never truly believed it would arrive. Then suddenly, it did. Like Joey from Friends famously says, “Why God, why? We had a deal.” That was genuinely how I felt. I was not ready to let go of my twenties. Not because they were extraordinary all of the time, but because they held so much of my becoming.
When I look back on the last decade, I do not see a collection of years. I see chapters. Entire lifetimes contained within a ten-year span. I see the young woman trying to navigate adulthood while simultaneously questioning whether she was doing any of it correctly. I see years spent balancing school, career ambitions, relationships, expectations, and uncertainty. I see the twenty-two-year-old version of myself having her first panic attack and realizing that the mind could become both a companion and an adversary. I see myself searching endlessly for certainty in situations that could only ever offer growth.
My twenties introduced me to some of the most profound experiences of my life. They brought me opportunities I once dreamed about and people I never imagined I would meet. They also introduced me to heartbreak, grief, disappointment, and loss in ways I could never have anticipated, yet at a tender age, already knew so well. I learned what it meant to love deeply. I learned what it meant to lose that love. I learned that friendships can end, that family relationships evolve, and that sometimes the versions of ourselves we have outgrown are the hardest things to leave behind.
There were moments when life felt unbearably heavy. Moments when I questioned whether I was moving forward at all. Moments when I wondered if the work I was doing on myself would ever amount to anything beyond exhaustion. Yet standing here now, I can see what I could not see then. Every painful experience left something behind. Every challenge revealed another layers of who I was. Every setback demanded that I became stronger, wiser, softer and more honest than I had been before. Pain has an interesting way of introducing us to ourselves.
Not immediately, of course. While we are living through it, pain feels disruptive. It feels unfair. It feels like something that is happening to us. Only later do we begin to understand that some of our greatest transformations were occurring beneath the surface the entire time. We discover that resilience was quietly being built. Boundaries were being strengthened. Self respect was being cultivated. The person we are becoming is often formed long before we recognize her.
As difficult as parts of my twenties were, I would not change them. Not because I enjoyed the struggle, but because of who emerged from it.
I have spent so much of my life believing that growth would eventually lead me to a final destination, some magical point where everything would suddenly make sense. What I realize now is that growth is not about arriving. It is about becoming increasingly comfortable with the unfolding. It is about trusting yourself enough to walk forward even when you cannot see the entire path.
And if my twenties were capable of teaching me that much, then I find myself approaching my thirties with far more curiosity than fear. When it came time to celebrate this milestone, I knew I wanted to leave the country. The planning process, however, was far less graceful than I had imagined. I procrastinated for months. I could not decide where to go, who to travel with, or what I wanted the trip to look like. The more options I had, the less motivated I felt to choose. Eventually, after far too much deliberation, I landed on France – Paris, followed by the French Riviera.
What unfolded was one of the most magical trips I have ever taken. Not because everything was perfect. Not because every moment went according to plan. But because this trip represented something much bigger than travel.It represented trust.
For years, I had carried quiet promises within myself. By the time I turned thirty, there were certain things I hoped would come into my life. I did not know how they would arrive. I did not know when they would arrive. I certainly could not have predicted the path they would take to get there. Yet despite all the uncertainty, I refused to stop believing they were possible. That belief was tested repeatedly.
Anxiety never stopped showing up. It knocked on the door almost daily. It whispered the same questions many of us know all too well. What if it does not happen? What if you are wrong? What if you are disappointed again?
But every time those thoughts surfaced, I answered them with the same response. Maybe. But it is still possible.
There is something profoundly powerful about remaining open to possibility when certainty is unavailable. We often assume confidence is the absence of doubt. In reality, confidence is continuing to move forward while doubt sits quietly in the passenger seat.
Paris felt like the physical embodiment of that lesson.
On the eve of my birthday, I found myself sitting beneath the night sky with a glass of rosé in hand, staring at one of the most recognizable landmarks in the world. As midnight approached, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle. The lights shimmered against the darkness and, in that moment, it felt as though an entire decade was closing while another opened before me.
What surprised me most was not the excitement. It was the peace. There was no urgency. No pressure. No desperate need to figure out what came next. There was simply gratitude. Gratitude for the people who loved me. Gratitude for the experiences that shaped me. Gratitude for every version of myself that had survived long enough to arrive at that moment. For the first time on a birthday, I felt completely present. It was serendipitous.
The following day, I spent hours riding my bike through Paris, eating pastries, sitting in parks, and allowing myself to move slowly through the city. There was no agenda beyond enjoying the day exactly as it was. Eventually my friend departed, and what remained was the beginning of another adventure entirely – my solo journey through the South of France.
Solo travel is not unfamiliar territory for me. My trip to Spain taught me a great deal about independence, healing, and self discovery. Yet if I am being honest, there was much sadness woven throughout that experience. While it ultimately became transformative, there were moments during that trip where loneliness occupied more space than joy. This time was different.
I have spent days trying to find the perfect word to describe what I felt, and the truth is that no single word exists. I felt wonder. Gratitude. Excitement. Awe. Freedom. Curiosity. Reflection. Emotion. What I did not feel was sadness.
Every wrong turn became part of the adventure. Every inconvenience felt insignificant compared to the privilege of being exactly where I was. Nice, Monaco, and Cannes had lived on my bucket list for years. To finally walk through those cities felt surreal.
So I allowed myself to experience them fully. I wandered through cobblestone alleyways without rushing toward a destination. I swam in the Mediterranean whenever I had the opportunity. I ate meals alone without reaching for my phone. I sat in outdoor cafés with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. I journaled among strangers. I watched sunsets dissolve into evenings. I wrote. I reflected. I existed.
And somewhere between those quiet moments, I realized something that brought tears to my eyes. For the first time in my life, I am genuinely happy. Not because life is perfect.
Not because all of my problems have disappeared. Not because I have somehow mastered the art of being human. I am happy because I finally trust myself. I trust myself to navigate uncertainty. I trust myself to survive disappointment. I trust myself to create meaning when life becomes difficult. I trust myself to continue moving forward regardless of what happens next.
That trust has created a level of peace that achievement alone could never provide. This journey has not been easy. There were years when survival felt like the greatest accomplishment available to me. There were years marked by grief, anxiety, heartbreak, confusion, and loss. There were years when healing felt painfully slow and progress felt invisible.
Yet every step mattered.
Every conversation. Every therapy session. Every difficult decision. Every boundary. Every risk. Every moment I chose myself when it would have been easier not to.
Looking back now, I realize that healing rarely arrives as a grand revelation. More often, it arrives quietly. It appears in the way you respond to situations that once overwhelmed you. It reveals itself in your ability to sit with discomfort without abandoning yourself. It shows up in the moments when you notice you are no longer fighting battles that once consumed your entire world.
The greatest gift of healing is not happiness. It is freedom. Freedom to be present. Freedom to trust. Freedom to enjoy what is here without constantly fearing what could be lost. This reflection is undoubtedly more personal than therapeutic. Yet perhaps that is what makes it meaningful. Because if there is one thing I hope you take from these words, it is this: You will get there.
Not on anyone else’s timeline. Not through perfection. Not by avoiding pain. You will get there by continuing. By showing up. By choosing yourself repeatedly. By trusting that the work you are doing today is building a life you cannot fully see yet. The battle does not need to be fought intensely every day. Sometimes healing looks like effort. Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it looks like simply refusing to quit. But keep going. Because one day you will find yourself standing in a moment that once felt impossible. You will look around and realize that the life you spent years hoping for has quietly become the life you are living.
Whether that view is from the French Riviera or from somewhere much closer to home, it will be worth every step it took to get there.
Thank you for being part of this community. Thank you for trusting us with your stories, your struggles, and your growth. It is a privilege to witness the courage that exists within so many of you.
Here’s to thirty. And here’s to the beautiful decade that awaits us all. (Sorry this one was a long one!)
