Today I turn 32. It’s not a particularly exciting age. 30 felt triumphant, as I closed the chapter on the mistakes and angst of 20-something self-discovery, which culminated with marrying my perfect-for-me life partner. 31 felt like a new beginning, as I moved beyond the anticipation of the big 3-0 and learned what it meant to live with the confidence of adult womanhood and partnership. But age 32 often gets overlooked. It’s a year, like any other, with the added stresses of aging eggs, noticeably emerging wrinkles, and lowered tolerance for alcohol. It’s a year that introduces you to the harsh truth of aging, and without any blow-out parties or champagne to soften the cruel blow (unless you really love hangovers. Which I don’t, because I learned from my 20-something mistakes that hangovers don’t make for productive workdays.)
And yet. Today, I’m 32 and I finally feel like I’ve earned my life. This upcoming year feels like a gift to myself. I’ve clawed my way out of depression and away from a bitter career dead end. I walked away from this blog and my writing, but I walked towards a career with passion, purpose, and potential. I’m still mourning my blog, but I’m indescribably excited about my job and everything I’ve built in the last six months. I’m at the same company, but in a new position where I’ve finally been able to take all my hard-won experience and turn it into career magic. (If by “magic” you mean three months without a full weekend and project after successful project.)
But the crazy thing is, there’s real magic in the mania. I’ve loved my late nights and long weekends, because I’ve been building something. I didn’t even realize it until I finally took a much-needed break (spas and massages were involved) and I had the chance to look backwards, and I nearly tumbled over from shock. I successfully managed a national crisis communications situation, without a background in PR. I produced a series of industry videos, without any background in production. I pitched a major multi-national company on my firm’s services and knocked it out of the park (despite my pre-meeting nausea). I’m on track for bigger and better things at my firm and with my client, in ways that are completely remaking the life I’m planning with my husband.
The comfort zone is so far away that I can’t see if from the hinterlands of long nights and audacious reaches outside my specific expertise. But I’m thriving. And I’m moving so fast that I barely had time to process it (that moment of nausea in the parking lot, notwithstanding) until this birthday hit.
I’m not the same woman I was a year ago. Around this time last year, my husband was laid off and I reluctantly came to terms with being a sole breadwinner, with the panics ultimately giving way to depression. Today, my husband has a job but we’re talking excitedly about me becoming the primary breadwinner when we have children. The bleary eyes of resignation have given way to a vision of the future fueled by passion and conviction that I can do this. And not only because I’m smart and capable, but because I’m already doing it. Every day.
At 32, I’m starting to look a little rough around the edges. There are new wrinkles. There are dark circles under my eyes. There are 15 extra pounds I put on while I worked through the hell of age 31. But at 32, I’m also starting to look strong, and not just because I’ve finally learned how to carve out exercise time and invested in a good suit. I look strong because that’s how you stare down men in the boardroom and make yourself heard. I look strong because I have to get things done, and I don’t have time for weakness. I look strong because I am.
I’ve been absent from this blog because I had to make hard choices. I hoarded my precious late night minutes for my family, which left no time for reflection or writing. But birthdays are times for reflection. And as I look back, I simply wanted to say that I’ve missed the blogging community and I’ve missed this, but that I don’t regret a single minute away.
I have no illusions anyone is reading my blog anymore. I know how the internet works. But I needed to write this for me, to close the chapter on age 31 and to walk towards the unwritten pages of age 32. Towards MY unwritten pages. Perhaps I’ll write them here. Perhaps I’ll actually have time and inclination again. Or perhaps I will write them in the strings of accomplishments, heartaches, and stolen moments with friends that will together paint a picture of a life well lived and duly earned. I only know that I’m strong enough to handle the mystery of my 32nd year as if unfolds. And for now, that’s enough.
