I spent this past weekend at Nashville’s Southern Festival of Books. It was the first time I’ve attended just to be there, just to soak it all in, as a writer. Over the course of 2 days, I listened in on 7 panels to the voices of over a dozen women who work as novelists, memoirists, and journalists. I learned so much about their experiences with race, religion, sexuality, and the creative life, but what I really walked away with was a different truth. There was a decidedly common theme among their stories in that not one of them was a young success. Not one of them would have been a 30 Under 30 contender. And not one of them was happily living under the stereotypical standards of the American Dream. In fact, several of them had upended their comfortable, stable lives to pursue their art. Others were writing books worthy of being burned. And still others were just telling their normal, everyday stories in a way that I can only dream of one day.
Two years ago, I was turning 30 in the middle of a pandemic. I’d just lost my job, and I was working part-time at a coffee shop. My fiance was sick, so I ordered myself Cheesecake Factory and drove out to the mall to pick it up for my own birthday dinner. I remember sitting there in the car listening to depressing Taylor Swift songs, trying to find a morbid kind of delight in the brightness of the moon against a dark black sky. I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home and bought a bath bomb so I could retreat into some warmth after I ate. I was sad. Really sad. This wasn’t how a milestone event was supposed to feel.
I didn’t want to be, but I was obsessed with the concept of turning the big 3-0. Not because I felt “old,” or because I wanted a baby, or because I had any specific goals I hadn’t reached, but simply because I didn’t feel fulfilled. I didn’t feel like I was living any version of a successful life, whether by the world’s standards or my own.
It’s no secret that the next year wasn’t a whole lot better. I was married by now, but still in a professional sense of limbo. My new husband cooked a special dinner for us, and we stayed in. We had a beautiful evening together. But still, I didn’t feel like myself. I couldn’t write. I was afraid I was going to need anti-depressants. So much for turning 30 “again;” I was still a mess.
But this year, the feelings are hitting a little different. This year, instead of focusing on all of the outside things I can’t change, I’ve been trying to steer my attention towards the good, towards my gratitude, towards my internal knowing. The joke is that I’m turning 30, “too,” but in reality I’m just 32 and I’m really, truly okay with it. Despite our cultural obsession with youth, I’m excited to get older, wiser, stronger, more self-assured, more creative, more daring…and more myself.
Unfortunately, I still don’t have the big answers I’ve been looking for. I don’t know what my “brand” is, what my future holds, what I want to share with the world. But what I do have…is hope. And time. And a whole bunch of mantras I’ve created as I’ve gotten in touch with my emotions, my faults, and my dreams.
Over the course of my journaling for the last 30 days, I began an accidental ritual of starting each post with a “To be” statement. These statements are kind of like an affirmation, but more of a wish, an intention. They range from the cliche to the silly, from the short to the lengthy. But each one is true. Each one speaks to my understanding of what I’m traveling through, where I’m headed, and who I want to be when I get there. So, here they are:
To be an optimist. To be a witch. To be self-loving. To be off of Instagram. To be courageous, honorable, and meant for big things. To be on a journey. To be hopeful. To “have it all.” To have fun. To take it slow. To know peace. To communicate freely. To let go. To begin again. To release. To be fearless. To keep on keeping on. To always find the tiny things. To wonder at the moon. To be patient with myself. To quit waiting. To look within. To create things to look forward to. To be independent. To break the rules and loosen control. To be…inspired. To take it easy. To write, everyday.
Today is a gorgeous fall day. The leaves on the trees have already turned vibrant shades of orange and yellow, and the morning sunlight casting down on them is truly brilliant. The temperature is somewhere in the 30s, and the high only 50. I’m about to bundle up in my favorite turtleneck sweater before heading out to feed my 14 fluffy goats and grab some breakfast in downtown Franklin. I am so grateful. I am so excited to see what’s next. And for now, it doesn’t matter what I’ve accomplished in the last 32 years, because if it got me here, I must have done something right.
LOVE LOVE LOVE. I love your birthday posts!!!