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Recently a friend of mine turned 29 and I called her from Madrid. It was around 8 a.m. her time and she was packing to celebrate her birthday next to the deep blue lake of Tahoe, California. I was flooded with memories from the last time we were all together there; the summer before I left for Spain. My insides had been crawling with excitement and worry (mostly worry) about my life ahead and what it would look like. Thinking about the future had felt as if I were looking at a concrete wall. I couldn’t fathom what I’d do, where I’d live, who I’d meet. The original plan was to live abroad for just one year and then come back to my normal life in California. I figured I’d move to Madrid, get the restlessness out of my system, and be back in time to finish the rest of my 20s like I was supposed to. You know... establish a career… find a partner who isn’t too boring or narcissistic or irresponsible with money… have a stunning wedding engagement photo shoot (one that makes everyone secretly hate you)… buy a house... pop out a baby before the clock strikes 30.
My friend told me that she had spent the eve of her 29th year looking at lists on the internet of things she needs to do before she turns 30.
"There's just not enough time,” she relented. “I'm almost 30 and there's so much I haven't done. It makes me feel bad.”
I could empathize. I’d spent the night of my own 29th birthday looking at products and procedures that 30 year-old-skin needs. I made frantic lists of retinoids and squalane solutions and injections. I added over 100 dollars worth of creams to my Amazon basket. Then I deleted it. Turns out I'm years behind on my skincare and now I should just accept my fate of being a wrinkly old rat with occasional hormonal acne.
I have always been prone to comparing my achievements to the milestones of others.
My parents were married at 25, so I expected that I'd be married around then too.
—At 25 I was freshly single and secretly planning my escape to Europe.
My mom was 115 lbs on the day of her wedding, so I should be 115 lbs on the day of my wedding (and all of the years leading up to it).
—I haven’t been 115 lbs since I was 15 years old.
My parents had their first child at 28, so I should too.
—At 28 I was earning minimum wage, working 12 hour days, and saving all my extra money to buy a plane ticket to Morocco.
My cousin found her soulmate just shy of her 30th birthday, so in the back of my very single mind I hoped that I too would be so lucky.
JK Rowling was a single mother and 32 years old when she wrote Harry Potter. Morgan Freeman was 50 when he got his big break. Julia Child published her first cookbook at 50 and found stardom in the years following. Still, it doesn't make as much of an impression on me as it does when I read that someone who I sat next to during college orientation has already written an entire book. Is there still time to do what I want to do when others have already done it? How can I become a writer in a world where Ashley Ford exists and has written every essay I never knew I needed?
Is there still time to change careers after age 30? I spent most of my 20s telling myself that I was too young to go to grad school. That I was too old to start a new career. Too this or too that. I’ve been so preoccupied about the dwindling time I have left, that I haven’t focused on the present. It's more often that we hear stories about people who start successful careers by 25 or stories of those who risk it all in Hollywood, sneaking into an audition with the skin and the mind of a 45-year-old. What about the people who make it to their 30s and finally realize what they want and need from this tiny world of ours? What did those people do?
So I’m letting go of the expectations that I have for my 30th birthday. Only four months remaining. I’m not married. I rent my small apartment. No baby ready to pop. I haven’t published a book or made six figures. And yet, there’s so many things that I have done. They weren’t all on these 30 before 30 lists... but who’s checking to make sure we’ve completed them anyway? I've decided to use them as a guide—not a rule. After all, some of them do have good advice, like managing your credit debt and taking control over your sexual health. Not to quote an overused Robert Frost poem, but I’m going to stop looking at the paths of my friends and family—some of which are smoother, have little heart shaped stone designs in them, or are overwrought with weeds. My path is a little wobbly, but I wouldn’t choose any other way.
The number 30 isn’t a finish line looming in the distance, waiting to tell me about all the things I failed to do. If anything it’s a marker along my way. I think when I reach it, it’ll pat me on the back, hand me a beer, and say “look at all those gigantic milestones still to come!”
Plus, I suspect that not much changes in our 30s. To me, it seems that life only gets better if you’re open to it (give or take a hangover and a sore back in the morning).