Until the moment I actually turned 30, I was in denial that I’d reached my third decade. After all, we’re told our twenties are the best years of our lives. And before that we were told our school years were the best. And before that–

What I’ve since realised is that each decade, each societally gleaned set of years, simply presents fresh opportunity. Now that I’m 30, I’m finding that this decade looks to be about stability. There’s a crisp clarity that comes with any-decision-making, an assured sense that you know what’s right and best for you, never mind for others. 30 feels like hands in familiar pockets, thumbing that odd thread-knot in your favourite jacket out of comfort, like the sunniest rays beaming down just-so in the morning, a soft cocoon (of duvet, or from strong arms).

30 looks good too. It’s takeout pizza eaten on the living room floor, curry night (a new first, in our way), fruit drinks in glass bottles sipped on the hill amongst daisies, pushing aside my own agenda to simply play with Milo for hours and hours. It’s being able to judge my own energy levels and play to them, tip-toe hugs and fingers tilting chins. It’s putting on a dress that you would’ve saved ‘just because’ and owning ‘best’ decisions on ‘not best’ days. A field ramble with a radiant sunset to chase and follow. Apple-cheeked smiles. Old tote bags full of new treats; paintbrushes, paint pots, 75% off bargains.

I feel grateful to be in my 30s, for so many people never get to experience this. Corny as it might sound, I feel like I woke up for the first time.

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