I had high expectations for my 13th birthday. Friends, cake, I wanted a cat. I had high hopes for boobs to come in and some studly boyfriend to appear.
Well, there were no friends that crowded my party pad. The cake was lackluster. I was flat-chested and crushing hard on a boy named Ricardo who barely knew I was alive. And the cat I wanted so badly? Well, I got a cat. A dead, taxidermy cat to be exact. When I opened the package, I burst into tears at the horror of it all.
I think that was my worst birthday.
I turn 30 in a week and to be honest, I haven’t wanted to deal with the mixture of emotions I feel. And then, of course, I explode on Facebook the wide range of crazy going on in my head this week.
Because there are days in this last week that I feel like a complete mess and wish I was younger and then there are days where I feel like the best days of my life are on its way.
Turning 30 looks like filing for bankruptcy.
It looks like fighting hard against longstanding addictions and learning the art of self control.
It feels like dying to self when I have to set boundaries and put toxic relationships on pause out of a deep love for them to get their own stuff together.
Turning 30 feels exciting and wonderful and like I can’t breathe all at once. It looks like knowing God will get me through the tough stuff because He always has.
You feel beautiful and yet unkempt all at once. Instagram kills your self-esteem while simultaneously reminding you that you are not the only one struggling and hustling.
Being single and 30 feels like dating is dull and a real relationship has just got to be on its way.
I’ll take that one step further. I have never been loved romantically and yet somehow, I feel like I am on the edge of cliff, with God saying, It is a matter of time before I ask you to jump. And when you have neither held hands nor kissed anyone, your 30-year-old self
kinda wants to throw up. But then you let yourself experience loneliness and suddenly, you’re that awkward teenager again, just wanting Ricardo to talk to you.
Parts of me are aching to be younger. But at 13, all I wanted to be was here.
I have broken, raw edges to myself. I did not expect to be this person at 30. In many ways, I did not expect to make it this far. But I’m here and I’m alive and I’m ready. Sort of.