Thirty Feels Like

Accepting that I know absolutely nothing

Whenever you turn a new age, somebody is always bound to ask you what it feels like. Do you feel older, do you feel like a new person, do you feel the same. I don’t know why we ask each other this question. I don’t know what we’re expecting. How are we supposed to convey what it feels like to live in our body and mind another year to someone who feels, thinks, looks, acts different than us but thinks they know what we mean? Quite possibly, we’re hoping they’ll say that getting older doesn’t hurt as much as people make it seem.

I turned 30 last month, and I got this question a few times. I probably said something uninteresting like, I’m excited to finally join the club. Which I am. But after a little more reflection, here’s what I really meant:

Thirty feels like waiting for flowers to finally poke through the nutrient-rich compost you spent a whole decade churning. You’re watering those raised beds every morning, looking for any signs of a sprout or a root.

Thirty feels like the ketchup stuck in the bottom of a jar that you have to palm just a few more times to shake loose. Your hand is starting to hurt and you’re growing hungry, but who eats a hotdog without ketchup. Not you.

Thirty feels like your right knee is a little less springy than it used to be, and there’s this constant pain behind your kneecap. You’re laying on a table with seven needles in your skin, placed by an acupuncturist who knows how to access the channels in your body that you didn’t even know existed until now.

Thirty feels like breathing in the cold air of a winter’s day right after you rinse with spearmint mouthwash. It’s surprising and fresh and tingly and takes your breath away, but you know the feeling isn’t going to last.

Thirty feels like finally allowing yourself to collect—books, art, art books, more than one cable knit Fisherman sweater and pair of black flats.

Thirty feels like getting a WaterPik from your dad, microgreens from your mom, and rippled glasses made in Copenhagen from your brother. Practical.

Thirty feels like loving yourself (finally) and your friends and your family, and not having much tolerance for people who aren’t willing to reciprocate the love.

Thirty feels like cleaning your dog’s ears and realizing being a dog mom is the only kind of mom you want to be.

Thirty feels like you have the whole rest of your life ahead of you, but already so much has happened and you finally have hindsight to process it.

Thirty feels like realizing you know absolutely nothing about everything.

That’s what it feels like to inhabit this body, this mind. I’m thankful to still be here, and to still want to be here. Because it hasn’t always been that way. I almost gave up on making the compost. But the flowers are right there, under the surface. I just know it.

With love,