I turned 30 last week. After countless “almosts” and “about to bes,” I just am, and it feels pleasantly climactic. The pursuit of simplifying my life is now cemented by a shiny, new decade—the reins of the status quo a little looser, pinky swears a little tighter (for the sake of youthful optimism). Thirty has long hovered like a slow-opening portal to elsewhere; having been conceived the night of UFO sightings over New York in the winter of 1990, it feels like I’m finally home.
I am 30 and that is enough.
I am 30 and that is enough.
I am 30 and that is enough.
I turned 30 last week. After countless “almosts” and “about to bes,” I just am, and it feels pleasantly climactic. The pursuit of simplifying my life is now cemented by a shiny, new decade—the reins of the status quo a little looser, pinky swears a little tighter (for the sake of youthful optimism). Thirty has long hovered like a slow-opening portal to elsewhere; having been conceived the night of UFO sightings over New York in the winter of 1990, it feels like I’m finally home.