I’m thirty years old today.
And I’m sitting here thinking, holy shit. I actually made it.
That sentence feels heavier than it probably should. People say it casually all the time, like getting older is just something that happens automatically, like breathing. But for me, and I think for a lot of us whether we admit it or not, making it to thirty doesn’t feel automatic. It feels earned. It feels like surviving something. It feels like crawling through a decade that didn’t always want you to come out the other side, and somehow, against all odds, you did.
I made it through my twenties.
That alone feels like something worth sitting with for a while.
Because my twenties were not simple. They weren’t clean. They weren’t the kind of years you wrap up neatly in a highlight reel and say, “yeah, that was fun.” They were chaotic. Messy. Painful. Confusing. There were highs, sure, but they were often followed by lows that hit harder than I ever expected. There were moments where everything felt like it was coming together, and then moments where it all collapsed just as quickly.
There were times I felt like I knew exactly who I was becoming. And then there were times I felt like I had absolutely no idea who I was at all.
And yet, through all of that, I’m here.
Thirty.
It’s strange, too, because growing up, thirty always felt like some distant, almost mythical age. Like that’s when you’re supposed to have it all figured out. That’s when life “starts to make sense.” That’s when you’re stable, secure, grounded. That’s when you become a real adult.
And now I’m here, and I can say with full honesty, I don’t have everything figured out. Not even close.
But I do have something else.
Perspective.
And maybe that matters more.
Because if my twenties taught me anything, it’s that life is not a straight line. It’s not a checklist. It’s not something you can plan perfectly and execute without disruption. Life is unpredictable in ways that can be beautiful and devastating at the same time.
Sometimes, it gives you moments that feel perfect.
And sometimes, it takes them away without warning.
I think about that a lot today. Especially today.
Because birthdays used to feel different.
Before 2019, my birthday felt like something lighter. Something joyful. Something I could just be present in without any weight attached to it. I didn’t think twice about it. It was just a day to celebrate, to be with people I cared about, to laugh, to exist in a moment that felt good.
And I can still picture one of those moments so clearly.
March 2019.
I was at Chili’s with my friends. We were celebrating. Just eating, talking, laughing, having a genuinely good time. Nothing extraordinary on paper, but everything about it felt right. It was one of those nights where you don’t realize how much it means while you’re in it. You’re just there, living it, assuming there will be more nights like that. Assuming life will just keep unfolding in that same rhythm.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I felt truly, fully happy without anything looming over me.
Just a few weeks later, everything changed.
April 18, 2019.
That date is burned into me in a way I wish it wasn’t.
That’s the day my uncle died.
My uncle on my dad’s side. But even saying “uncle” doesn’t fully capture it. He was more than that. He was like a second father to me. A presence that felt constant. Someone who was just… there. In the way you assume certain people will always be there.
And then suddenly, he wasn’t.
It didn’t feel real. It still doesn’t, sometimes.
Even now, seven years later, there are moments where I think about it and my brain just kind of rejects it. Like, no, that didn’t actually happen. That can’t be right. He’s just… somewhere else. I’ll see him again. This isn’t permanent.
But it is.
And that’s the part that never fully settles.
Because loss like that doesn’t just take a person away. It changes the way everything feels afterward. It reshapes your emotional landscape in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve gone through it.
Birthdays changed.
Holidays changed.
Moments that used to feel purely happy now carry something else with them. A kind of quiet sadness. A reminder of absence. A sense that something is missing, even when everything else is technically “fine.”
Ever since 2019, my birthdays haven’t felt the same.
There’s always this underlying feeling, this awareness that someone who should be here isn’t. Someone who would have been part of this day, part of this moment, part of this version of me turning thirty.
And that absence doesn’t get easier. It just becomes more familiar.
It becomes something you carry.
So yeah, birthdays have been harder since then.
Not unbearable. Not entirely negative. But different.
Heavier.
And I think part of me has been stuck on that, in some way, for years. Like a part of my happiness got frozen in time back in March 2019, sitting in that Chili’s with my friends, completely unaware of what was coming next.
That was the last time everything felt uncomplicated.
The last time joy didn’t have a shadow attached to it.
And everything since then has been… something else.
Not all bad. But not the same.
And I’ve had to learn how to live with that.
My twenties, especially the years after 2019, felt like a long stretch of trying to figure out how to exist in a world that suddenly felt more fragile. More unpredictable. More capable of taking things away without warning.
And it wasn’t just personal stuff either.
The world itself has felt like it’s been in constant chaos.
Politically, socially, globally, everything has felt unstable. There’s been this constant sense of tension, like things could escalate at any moment. Like we’re always on the edge of something bigger, something worse.
It’s been exhausting.
And trying to navigate personal grief while also living through broader societal instability… that does something to you.
It wears you down.
It makes it harder to feel hopeful.
It makes it harder to believe in the future in a straightforward way.
There were times in my twenties where I genuinely didn’t know what the next few years would look like. Not in a normal, “life is uncertain” way, but in a deeper, more unsettling way. Like, what even is stability anymore? What does it mean to build something lasting in a world that feels like it’s constantly shifting?
And yet, here I am.
Thirty.
Still standing.
Still trying.
Still here.
That has to mean something.
And I think that’s what I want to focus on today.
Not just the loss. Not just the pain. Not just the ways things haven’t been the same.
But the fact that I’m still here in spite of all of it.
Because that matters.
Survival matters.
Getting through the hard years matters.
Continuing to show up, even when things feel heavy, even when the world feels uncertain, even when your own emotions feel complicated and messy, that matters.
And I’ve done that.
I’ve made it through a decade that challenged me in ways I never expected.
I’ve dealt with loss that reshaped how I experience happiness.
I’ve lived through years that felt chaotic both personally and globally.
I’ve had moments where I felt lost, uncertain, overwhelmed.
And I still made it to thirty.
That’s not nothing.
That’s something real.
And now I’m looking ahead at my thirties, and I feel… cautiously hopeful.
Not in a naive way. Not in a “everything is going to magically be perfect now” way.
But in a grounded way.
A realistic way.
A way that acknowledges everything I’ve been through, but still allows for the possibility that things can be better.
Because I want my thirties to be different.
I don’t expect them to be free of pain. That’s not how life works. Loss doesn’t just disappear. The world doesn’t suddenly become stable. Everything doesn’t suddenly fall into place just because you hit a new decade.
But I do think there’s an opportunity here.
A chance to approach life differently.
A chance to build something more intentional.
A chance to find moments of happiness again, even if they feel different than they used to.
Because maybe happiness doesn’t look the same after loss.
Maybe it’s not as light. Maybe it’s not as carefree.
But that doesn’t mean it’s gone.
It just means it’s changed.
And maybe part of growing up, part of moving into your thirties, is learning how to accept that change without letting it completely take over.
Learning how to hold both things at once.
The sadness and the joy.
The grief and the gratitude.
The past and the future.
Because they’re all part of the same life.
And I don’t want to spend my thirties stuck in the idea that my best moments are behind me.
I don’t want to believe that the last time I was truly happy was in March 2019 and that’s it. That’s the peak. Everything else is just an echo.
I don’t think that’s true.
I don’t want it to be true.
I think there are still moments ahead that can feel just as meaningful. Maybe not identical. Maybe not in the same way. But still real. Still worth experiencing.
I want to believe that I can sit somewhere again, with people I care about, laughing, feeling present, and not immediately thinking about what could go wrong next.
I want to believe that kind of happiness is still possible.
And maybe the difference now is that I’ll appreciate it more when it happens.
Maybe I won’t take it for granted in the same way.
Maybe I’ll recognize it in real time instead of only realizing its value after it’s gone.
That’s something my twenties taught me the hard way.
Pay attention to the good moments while you’re in them.
Because you don’t always get a warning before things change.
And speaking of time, it’s kind of surreal to think about what comes next.
Thirty.
Thirty-seven more years until retirement age, assuming that even stays the same. Which, honestly, who knows. The way things are going, they might move the goalposts again. Wouldn’t be surprising.
But still.
Thirty-seven years.
That’s a long time.
And at the same time, it doesn’t feel that long.
Because the last ten years went by in what feels like a blur.
A very intense, very chaotic blur.
And then there’s this other number that’s been sitting in my mind.
Nineteen years.
In nineteen years, I’ll be the age my uncle would have been if he were still here.
That’s a strange thought.
A heavy one.
It’s like there’s this invisible timeline running alongside my own, this “what could have been” version of things that I can’t help but think about.
And I don’t know exactly how to process that.
I don’t think there’s a clean way to.
But maybe I don’t need to have all the answers right now.
Maybe it’s enough to just acknowledge it.
To recognize the weight of it without letting it define everything.
Because today is still my birthday.
I’m still here.
I still have time ahead of me.
And I want to use that time in a way that feels meaningful.
Not perfect. Not flawless. But intentional.
I want my thirties to be a decade where I try, genuinely try, to build something better for myself.
Emotionally.
Mentally.
Maybe even physically.
I want to find ways to reconnect with happiness, even if it looks different than it used to.
I want to be more present.
More aware.
More appreciative of the moments that are good while they’re happening.
And I want to carry the memory of my uncle in a way that honors him, without letting the grief completely overshadow everything else.
That’s a balance I’m still figuring out.
But I think that’s okay.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life isn’t about having everything figured out.
It’s about continuing to move forward anyway.
Continuing to learn.
Continuing to adapt.
Continuing to find meaning where you can.
And right now, the meaning I’m finding is simple.
I made it to thirty.
After everything, I’m still here.
And that’s worth something.
Maybe even everything.
So yeah.
Happy birthday to me.
Let’s see what the thirties have in store.
I’m ready to find out.
