On Thursday, I will turn 29. The last year of my twenties. Last year, I was super emotional about being so close to thirty. This year? I’m pretty “meh” about it.
In part, this antipathy is due to the place I’m at in life. The ten year challenge is making it’s rounds on social media: you at the beginning of the decade, vs now, the end of the decade.
When I look at the last ten years of my life…I’ve lost and gained so much.
I lost my virginity. My confidence. Some shitty-ass fucking relationships. Some friends. A classmate. My sense of self.
I’ve gained…some weight. A husband. A home. Two beautiful sons. Two ornery cats. A Bachelors and Masters degree. A career.
I lost the sense of outside pressure. Small town mindedness. I’ve gained empathy, understanding, and often heartache.
Some days, it seems like I’ve lost more than I gained: Others my blessings are so apparent to me, it brings tears to my eyes because my heart is so fucking full.
Twenty-nine is likely to bring the same joy and pain the past ten years have. It will bring first steps from R and the first day of preschool for G. It will bring loving my man and fighting with him too. Likely there will be days of great anxiety and depression, but there will also be days of laughing until I cry, drinking wine with my best friends, and hopefully being present in the moments of my life.
Occasionally, I wish I could go back and do it all again: depending on my day, with or without the knowledge I’ve earned in the past ten years. But realistically, I wouldn’t trade a minute of this wild ass decade: I hate the mental illnesses I struggle with, the fact that the diagnosis came after one of the best moments of my life (G’s birth). But, everything else I have–especially my boys–is worth every moment of down. They’re the reason I fight. The reason 29 will be amazing.
So yeah, bring it 29.