In just a few weeks, I’ll be celebrating another birthday. It’s not a milestone year, which means it will likely blend in with the rest—both remarkable and inconsequential at the same time. Just another one of those “something” birthdays.
A few years back, I penned my thoughts on the enchanting age of 33. Reflecting on that piece, I see that not much has changed. The thirtysomething experience of a few years ago feels strikingly similar to today’s version, though I might have a few more lines on my face. Perhaps it’s because this phase of life is about finding your footing—settling in comfortably, in the best sense of the phrase. It’s a familiar rhythm, but one that becomes clearer and even more fulfilling.
Being thirtysomething means knowing there was a show titled Thirtysomething, though I’ve never actually watched it. I can name a few members of the Brat Pack, but not all. I might forget my child’s first-grade teacher’s name, yet I can still recall my own.
It’s about reheating cups of coffee in the microwave only to forget them again. It’s choosing to hit the sack at 9:00 PM on a Saturday night and feeling perfectly fine about it. And waking up at 7:30 AM when you finally get the chance to sleep in.
This decade means regular visits to a stylist and knowing exactly which shade of lipstick makes you look your best, while still occasionally experimenting with a bold hot pink just because. It’s about understanding what truly deserves your attention and what doesn’t, even if you sometimes mix the two up.
Thirtysomething is a vivid memory of where you were on September 11, 2001. It involves more birthday celebrations and baby baptisms than weddings, yet sadly, more funerals than one would hope for. There’s that moment of panic when your mom calls unexpectedly—what if something’s wrong?
This age brings long stretches when everything seems to align perfectly; life is good, and possibilities feel endless. But it also includes shorter periods when life gets tough and some things feel insurmountable. It’s about shedding tears in the shower or indulging in cookie dough because life can be both wonderful and challenging.
Sometimes I feel like a moody teenager again, questioning if adulthood ever truly shakes off that middle school vibe. I try to hold back laughter when my kid mispronounces “truck,” and I can’t resist adding a cheeky “that’s what she said” here and there.
Thirtysomething embraces comfy pajamas, well-worn bras, and practical shoes. It’s a time when you’re dealing with a mix of acne, wrinkles, and age spots all at once. You come to realize that, despite popular belief, you actually loathe yoga—and that’s perfectly fine.
It’s about soothing little ones back to sleep after a nightmare, then lying awake for hours afterward. I still mix up “laying” and “lying” but have stopped stressing about it. I feel both youthful and aged simultaneously, with friends spanning in their 20s and 40s.
This phase is learning how to gracefully decline invitations and often saying “I don’t know” or “ask your Dad” more than I expected. I might feel a twinge of disappointment for not being invited to an event, even if I wouldn’t have wanted to attend anyway.
Thirtysomething is date nights at chain restaurants, driving minivans, and engaging in countless conversations about finances. It’s knowing who your true friends are and where your safe spaces lie, and being that support for someone else. My body may have changed—my belly is rounder, my breasts sag a bit more, and my thighs are thicker—but I’m mostly okay with that because my heart feels fuller than ever.
This decade brings a sense of wisdom, a bit more common sense, and an accurate countdown to bedtime.
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In summary, being thirtysomething is a blend of nostalgia, growth, and self-acceptance. It’s a journey filled with both joy and challenges, where the heart expands even as the body changes.