Hello friends!!

Long time no see? *hides in shame*

I apologize, it’s just that I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and doing other awful things like not chasing after my dreams and instead, have been sitting in a puddle of my own tears, pathetically reminiscing on all the things I should’ve done and all the things I didn’t and blah, blah, blah… It’s all very woe is me, and frankly, I’m over it. It’s boring, outdated, and so 2025. I’ve been doing the same bit since I was 25 and I’m exhausted of it. The bit has grown so old, it is practically growing mold, and it’s beginning to poison my brain. With all of that, I stopped writing for some time because you know, writer’s block, or so I told myself. What I actually think it was: Me being afraid that I wouldn’t like my own writing and claiming a mental block as the reason I wouldn’t be writing, because truthfully, I just didn’t wanna even try for fear I would hate every word. I’m rolling my eyes thinking of it, but I’m trying to be empathetic for old me. Me from two weeks ago was simply not as clever and intuitive as now me. It’s sad, really.

Which reminds me, I turned 30 two weeks ago, and this whole “I’m so sad over all my life choices” bit is so 20s coded and not at all how a hot, intelligent young woman should be going about her life.

So, we’re scratching all of that and are entering 2026 just like a fresh into her 30s woman out to do. Confident, clever, absolutely gorgeous and glowing, ignoring that her knees are beginning to hurt, and ready to begin this next stage of her life.

Truth is, my 20s were just okay.

I spent most of them thinking of all the things I wanted to do and I get so sad thinking about all the wasted opportunities I missed out on. All the times I spent wishing instead of doing. I spent more time this decade crying over how average I was at this one thing or that other, comparing my abilities to others. Others who, mind you, have been actively working at their hobbies and skills for years or decades and have put actual, real effort to better themselves. I expected to what? Change without doing? Without effort? Yeah, I guess I kinda did. I compared myself to others my age, others younger. Belittled myself, constantly, almost daily. It soothed me to do so, because it meant I could prolong my state of doing nothing if I instead spent that time feeling pity for myself.

A better part of this last decade, I wasted being afraid of acting like the person I truly am. Not being as honest as I could have been with myself. I allowed a shadow of who I thought I was to represent me. I wanted to come across as the most interesting always, as unique, different, better, smarter.

The thing is, I can be unique when I allow my real personality, my true tastes and desires, and my own thoughts to shine. I felt like the majority of the time, I wore a mask of who I wanted to be, and the mask embedded itself onto my skin so closely, I mistook it as mine. I wanted so desperately, to be palatable. Unique but still within the confines of acceptable. Different but not so different it made others uncomfortable. I tried this and that personality, but there was always something lacking, something that didn’t click. I attempted, via clothing hauls and makeup looks, books that didn’t interest me, words that didn’t feel like mine, and actions I regretted, to be different variations of a person, none of which were truly me. Did they contain parts of me? Oh yeah. Tons of them. Slowly, small, bite-sized chunks of my true person chipped away, little by little. By figuring out the things I hated, I figured out the ones I loved. That’s the point of your 20s, isn’t it?

I can say, happily, that I am only 30. I still feel like I am digging and chipping away at this rock of a human being to try to uncover the different layers of me but I do so with a more clear head, and the knowledge that life is going to keep showing me different versions of myself as I age. It is okay to be one person today, and another five years from now. The thought doesn’t weigh as heavily now, knowing that the person I will be two, five, ten years from now will still be me, just… different.

Each decade is going to show me new things about myself, and perhaps, some things I do now will become things 40 year old me would never dream of doing again. I am content with that reality. To be human is to keep peeling away at those layers, to toss out old ones, to grow new ones, mold them, burn them, change them, soak them and leave them out to dry so you can paint over them, reuse them, have them new.

I’ve fallen in love with romanticizing life

One thing I have grown to love over the last two or three years is the art of romanticizing my everyday.

Hot coffee in the morning as I sit on my desk, trying to make a routine of my writing, make every single second I am given in which I am not working, a fantasy version of reality. Sit by the window so the sun hits my face just right while I read a book and pretend I am a character in a movie. Lighting a candle while I attempt to draw something albeit poorly but at least I am doing it, go for a nature walk and pretend I’m in a character in one of the fantasy stories I love so much.

Being more mindful, consuming less or at least just what is necessary for me, putting my phone down more, being with the people who truly matter, sitting in silence so I can also get to know myself, my own lifelong best friend. Doing it all slowly, cautiously, and with intention. These are the seconds that are going to count when I reach the end of the line and I want to enjoy them as much as possible. That is, whenever I am not working… But we don’t talk about work around these parts.

I’m relentlessly trying out every thing that interests me, I’m chasing every impossible dream, because my life is not going to slow down. I want to learn to sing, to play piano, to dance, make new friends, learn new languages, take history classes and art, paint, learn to watercolor, pottery, learn to work with clay, to carve, I want to make music, make books, read books, grow a collection. Each minute is going to pass as quickly as it always has, each year will see me grow older and older and I can’t waste a single second. By this, I don’t mean there won’t be time for rest. Quite the opposite, I plan to rest as much as possible. I love rest. But I want to try things. It is the perfect time. I have the resources and the privilege to do so, so there’s really no excuse for me. I bought myself a piano for the first time, and just now, at 30, I’ll be learning to play my first instrument. I’m ready.

Physical logs are so in!!!!!

I’ve started keeping not only digital logs but physical ones as well of all the things I do and like. All the new and old things I watch, read, listen to, try, make, do. I’m doing this so 70-year-old me can have something to look back on just in case her mind begins to falter. Because there really is no way of knowing if I’ll even make it to 70. It isn’t so scary to me, the uncertainty of life, in fact, it drives me to enjoy life harder. With more gusto.

I think, with the rise of AI, we are going to start seeing more people detach themselves from the digital world little by little. I suspect the art of being imperfect, anti cookie cutter/clean girl will be all the rage. Real, raw, messy, authentic will be the words to look out for.

I’ve started by building my collection of physical media, writing notes and thoughts in journals and random pieces of paper, always keeping a pen handy, decluttered my phone of apps that will keep me distracted from life with the hopes of one day getting rid of my smartphone altogether. It’s a small change but it’s something.

It’s only something I began doing during the last couple of months so I will keep you all updated on my progress. So far, I have found that writing my notes and stories on paper helps my brain decompress a little, and the ideas to flow a little smoother and easier.

Life is about the journey, not the destination

You’ve probably heard this before. I know I have. I’ve heard this quote being repeated in different variations, different circumstances, by different people throughout all of my life. I guess I never truly paid attention to it. It only just now clicked for me.

There really is no one singular end goal in life. We really are just, alive one day and the next we’re not. This can sound morbid if you allow it to. I choose to see it differently. The absolute certainty that life is not infinite gives me more to live for. It’s how we choose to spend each minute between our first breath and our last which matters.

Me romanticizing this one life I have, my logs, my hobbies, my trinkets, my books, coffee, good music, museums, the sun peeking in through my window, a spring breeze, film cameras, live shows, art, flowers, gardens.

This is how we survive.

I am no stranger to a crisis of personality, so I expect some time in this next coming decade or two, I will be experiencing what is known as the midlife crisis, and I hope to be prepared, though I know I won’t be. But life, anyway, seems to be small sets of crises after another, and it’s how you handle them which means something.

But what do I know, I’m only 30.