I’m welcoming March with wide, open arms this year. Tomorrow, I turn 30.
And, thanks to the ongoing pandemic, I’ll be spending it surrounded by my immediate family. In all the ways, there’s no other way I’d rather spend it. This milestone birthday is one that I’ve dreaded, looked forward to, anticipated and pushed away all at once. Lately, though, I’ve been excited for it. To turn thirty is a blessing; three decades of life experience stacked up like teetering wooden learning blocks. We may be years beyond ABCs but I’m still learning, day by day. I’m grateful for all of life’s lessons, soul-stirring, heart-wrenching and (brief) dream-crushing at they can be at times.
Importantly, I’m learning to prioritise myself after so much time nudging that away. Someone else should care for me, I’d say. But I am my own responsibility too. As the days, weeks and months slip away, so too does the pretence that I should be this or I should be that. It feels like a real joy, a weight off my shoulders, to realise and really notice that I’m more than the world wants me to be. Life can, and is, simple. It’s cosy, slow, soft. It’s not shiny by any means, but it is magical. The way that simple birdsong can remind you that the world continues outside of your window. Or that the barista adds a smiley face to your takeaway coffee cup on those days when you were yet to smile. And how boundlessly happy a beautiful bunch of flowers can make you.
For many reasons, I’m graciously welcoming my 30s. Here’s to self-love, gratitude and the smallest joys that make life a big joy. Here’s to another heart-happy year, and many more.