30 Isn’t What I Thought It Would Be (And Maybe That’s Okay)

I don’t feel excited about turning 30.

But I’m not sad either. It’s this strange middle place—somewhere between acceptance and uncertainty.

For so long, 30 felt like a checkpoint. A finish line. A place where I was supposed to arrive polished, powerful, and absolutely certain about who I am. But now that I’m here? I feel more like I’ve wandered off the beaten path—and for the first time, I’m okay with that.

My twenties taught me that a lot of the people I thought would be with me forever… won’t be coming with me into this next decade. And that used to feel like a loss. But now it feels more like pruning. Painful, yes. But necessary for growth.

If I could go back and talk to my 20-year-old self, I’d say:

Don’t rush.

Don’t rush to grow up. Don’t rush to figure it all out. Don’t rush to be 30.

I spent too much time trying to live fast—thinking life was found in parties and bars and late-night drama with people I barely knew. And I missed the beauty of simplicity. The quiet magic of slow mornings and little hands tugging at my shirt and the joy of a home that smells like dinner and safety.

I used to want a big life.

Now, I just want a deep one.

I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for two years now. I have two boys—one 12, one 2. So yes, I’m tired. But also: I’m present. And that’s a gift I didn’t know I’d need this badly.

There’s a part of me that’s grieving right now, even as I write this.

Not a dramatic grief—more like a whisper. A soft goodbye to the girl who used to be excited about everything. The one who thought adulthood would feel like freedom and fireworks.

Because truthfully? Life got heavier. And I got quieter. Not sad. Just… softer.

But maybe that’s what your thirties are for.

To rest.

To heal.

To grow into the kind of person who knows that peace matters more than popularity. That a partner who sees you is better than one who impresses others. That family dinners and early nights and a house full of laughter are worth far more than attention from people who wouldn’t notice if you disappeared.

So here I am. 30.

Not the woman I thought I’d be.

But someone I think younger me would’ve admired anyway.

I still hope my thirties bring big things—purpose, healing, maybe even more stability than I’ve ever known. But mostly, I hope they bring slow, gentle days. I hope I keep learning to love the life I’m already living, instead of chasing one that was never meant for me.

Because I don’t want a loud life anymore.

I want a quiet porch.

A husband who still kisses me when the coffee’s brewing.

Grandkids, one day, God willing, running barefoot through the grass while I watch from a rocking chair.

I used to think 30 was the end of youth.

Now I think it’s the beginning of something softer, something deeper.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.