I first wrote this exactly a month before my birthday, on a quiet November morning in Malaysia. It struck me that I was turning thirty in thirty days. I didn’t have an existential crisis, no desperate urge to book a solo trip or buy an expensive sneaker to mark the occasion. It was just a thought that landed quietly, and then refused to leave.
Maybe it’s because lately, life has been reminding me of itself. In the span of three weeks this September, one of my close friends passed away, two friends lost their grandfathers, and another friend’s pet died. A strange cluster of endings. I joked that maybe I should stop opening WhatsApp, but behind the humour was the quiet recognition that I might be entering that age when loss starts to enter the group chat a little too often.
And yet, almost at the same pace, new beginnings kept popping up – weddings, births, housewarmings, save-the-dates. I’d just returned from two weddings back-to-back, meeting people I hadn’t seen in a decade. One former class troublemaker, the kind who used to get sent out of class on principle, was now talking about contentment, financial humility, and living slowly. I was impressed, confused, and slightly entertained all at once.
Across all of this, I’ve realised I’m observing more than reacting.
My twenties were pure velocity – new cities, new jobs, new heartbreaks, new passports filling up faster than my brain could process. This year alone I’ve travelled to twelve countries, half for work, half for fun. Last year it was fifteen. Between designing programs, running workshops, hopping across time zones, and eating every cuisine I could get my hands on (or find vegetarian options for), life has been…full. Beautifully full. Transformational in ways that I’ll probably only understand a few years from now.
But fullness has its own quiet consequences.
Somewhere along the way, my parents started aging in ways that no longer feels theoretical. My friendships began requiring more intention than spontaneity. And my lower back, very rudely, began expressing its opinions about hotel mattresses.
As Dolly Alderton writes in her book Everything I Know About Love, the twenties are for “collecting experiences,” and the thirties are for “editing.” The twenties are a blur of accumulation, people, goals, phases, distractions, and at some point, the noise starts to get in the way. As you age, you stop pretending to enjoy things you secretly don’t. You recognize that some friendships belong to a version of you that no longer exists, and that’s okay. You no longer feel guilty about leaving a party early. You start noticing who brings you calm instead of adrenaline.
And somewhere in the middle of all that realignment, you realise life isn’t a straight line; it’s a loop. Weddings, funerals, births, goodbyes, job changes, new cities, old stories resurfacing, new stories beginning.
I’m editing this paragraph now from a flight from Accra to Addis Ababa, a week before my 30th birthday, heading home for yet another wedding. There is something unintentionally poetic about writing this essay in transit, suspended between time zones, between decades, between who I’ve been and whoever I’m becoming next.
Working across cities, catching flights like they’re local buses, trying to maintain friendships stretched across continents, it’s all joyful, yes, but also tiring. I used to think adulthood meant building momentum; now I think it’s about holding still long enough to understand what you’re rushing toward.
It reminded me of something Richard Rohr wrote, “Maturity is the ability to live joyfully in an imperfect world.”
When I was turning 28 in Bali, I met two women in their early forties at a cacao ceremony. Both divorced, both mothers, both on a short break from their lives back home in New York and Perth. One of them said, almost offhand, “Your thirties are when life starts feeling like it’s yours.” I didn’t fully understand it then. I think I’m starting to now.
So here’s to entering thirty, to less overthinking and more noticing, to stronger backs and softer hearts, to laughter that comes easily and silences that don’t feel awkward.
To everything that ends, and everything that keeps beginning anyway.
