I turned 29 this week. Literally yesterday!
And if I’m being honest? It feels tender.
When I was younger, 30 had a checklist. A baby on my hip. A degree framed on the wall. Keys to a little house that smelled like cinnamon candles and fresh paint. I thought if I just worked hard enough, loved hard enough, pushed hard enough — it would all line up neatly.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a post called “Reclaiming Myself in 2026.” At the time, I thought I had already hit my wake-up call. I talked about burnout. About abandoning school. About trying to “keep up with the Joneses.” About how the only decision from 2025 I didn’t regret was getting my dogs because they were my only real comfort in a year full of wrong turns.
I meant every word of that post.
But I wrote it before my mom ended up in the hospital with a stroke caused by stress.
Celebrating my birthday after sitting for 5 days in a hospital room, listening to machines beep while pretending everything was fine, changes you. Watching stress physically take down someone you love is sobering. It makes all the arbitrary timelines feel small. It forces you to ask what any of this pressure is actually worth.
Last year, I was so burnt out I scared myself. I was so stressed I didn’t want to exist anymore. And all of it was because I was trying to force a life by 30 that just isn’t here yet.
All I wanted was:
A baby.
My degree.
To start buying a house.
And right now? I don’t see any of that happening anytime soon.
That makes me sad. Deeply sad. I’m grieving the version of 30 I built in my head. The Pinterest board version. The “you’re right on time” version.
But I’m also realizing something bigger than milestones:
I don’t want to stress myself into the same hospital bed.
Twenty-nine isn’t about scrambling to catch up anymore. It’s about choosing my health. Choosing steadiness. Choosing to go back to school because I value it — not because I’m trying to prove something to hypothetical children. And that doesn’t mean going back right now. It’s choosing workshops and clubs and monthly solo dates because I deserve a full life now, not just once I hit certain markers.
That earlier post was me saying, “If I’m already in hell, why stay?”
This birthday feels like me actually walking out.
I still want the baby.
I still want the degree.
I still want the house.
But I want to be alive and well enough to enjoy them.
So 29 is the year I stop abandoning myself to please others or a fictional version of myself.
It’s the year I build a foundation that doesn’t crack under pressure.
And maybe that’s the most grown-up thing I could do before 30.
