I turned thirty yesterday.
Even though I live hundreds of miles away now, I woke up in my childhood bed in my mother’s home, hearing the sounds of her laughter from the kitchen. I got in the car with my sister and my two mothers and drove past stores and street signs I’ve driven past my entire life. We got our nails done like we used to when I was thirteen and scared about what my life would look like at thirty. We had dinner at the restaurant I had countless birthdays at, had my high school graduation lunch at, and my engagement party in. My very best friend and I laughed until we snorted and my mothers held my hand together. We had my favorite cake in my grandparents’ living room surrounded by photos of our entire lives.
At thirty everything is different and yet nothing really has changed. I used to be so afraid that crossing this imaginary threshold between my twenties and my thirties would be something terrifying, the end of youth. But I’m wearing a fandom t-shirt while I sit in the neighborhood I grew up in and I still feel like me.
I turned thirty yesterday and I’m so glad I get to turn thirty one next year.
