Within the last week, two articles that unapologetically highlight the differences between our 20s and our 30s invaded my social media feeds. If you wish to snort your morning coffee or at least give a vehement head-nod, here are the links that are worth clicking.
At dinner with a friend recently, as the Zinfandel gradually disappeared from our glasses the conversation turned to more honest admissions. She told me that the actual event of turning 30 didn’t bother her. Turning 31 however, has been traumatic and is giving her a serious case of the sads. With these Buzzfeed articles tromping through my Twitter and Facebook feeds and now this conversation with one of the most confident women I know, it really made me stop and think. Was I bothered when I turned 30? Not a bit.
I was living in New Jersey back then, just across the water from Manhattan. To celebrate the momentous day, my college best friend and I rented out the top floor of Social on 8th Ave. and invited everyone from our boyfriends to our friend’s boyfriends to our yoga instructors. The night we turned the dreaded 30 was swirled with booze and love and we lived every second of it, reveling in the fact that we were young(ish) and in the metropolitan hub of the world. What was there to be bothered about? Life was great!
Nope, I didn’t freak out about turning 30. Or 31 or 32.
Turning 33 though? That was my holy shit moment.
Thanks to some major life events and a big ass sign from above, I decided to move to Atlanta shortly thereafter. And in my new hometown, with my family and among friends old and new, I’ve celebrated my 34th and 35th birthdays. I have found my happy and I’m growing more every day into the person I want to be. My body has transformed from sickly thin and unhealthy to strong and nourished. I’m blissfully in love and can’t wait for the future with my puzzle piece. Those statements are fantastic on their own and all worth celebrating, but when my friend asked me over dinner if I’d ever felt that way, I told her the simple truth: my mid-thirties have set me free. I went on to explain what I think is so much better about being in my thirties.
because I have come to understand myself
So no, I don’t read these tongue-in-cheek, gif-strewn articles about going to bed instead of the bar at 10pm and pine longingly for my twenties. I’m quite happy that the days of waking up smelling like bad decisions are far behind me, thankyouverymuch.
If you’re approaching thirty and are panicking about your ‘loss of youth’, take Peach’s word for it. 30s are the new I Don’t Give A Shit.
And it’s awesome.
Bio: Peach is an Atlanta blogger, CrossFit addict, runner, yogi, dork-o-rama, Clean Eats foodie with a mean sweet tooth and lover of all things funny/pretty/fuzzy. She can be found egregiously overusing hashtags as 50Peach on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram. She blogs at 50Peach.com and promises not to say “Bless your heart.” … unless you really deserve it.