Thirty, On Purpose

People write more when they are sad than when they are happy.

Maybe it’s because negative emotions demand to be processed. Anger, sadness, paranoia—they insist on being felt before they loosen their grip. They sit heavy. They breathe through words.

Happiness feels different. Joy is light. Almost fragile. As if naming it too loudly might scare it away. Writing about joy requires looking at it directly. And sometimes, looking too closely risks overthinking it, and overthinking has a way of thinning even the brightest feeling.

I hope this isn’t too bleak an introduction for a birthday reflection.

Because I am happy, and I want to write something that I am happy about.

*****

Turning thirty feels right.

I’ve always felt like I was thirty anyway. Responsible for people and things before I was responsible for myself. Thrust into the world in ways I didn’t always feel ready for. Much to my delight, I’m often told I don’t look my age. I still get mistaken for a high schooler and sometimes even younger than my youngest sister. I credit my genes. Maybe my sunscreen. Maybe also my disposition. A certain commitment to whimsy.

But inside? Thirty feels like home.

There’s no dread here. No existential spiral. Just quiet excitement. It’s like the ground settling beneath my feet. As if I’ve finally caught up with the age I’ve always felt I’ve been.

So I welcomed it the way I know best: by gathering my village on the eve of my birthday.

The room was in warm amber light. The wooden floors echoed footsteps while the walls vibrated with laughter and music. Half-eaten cake. Flower bouquets too big for my arms. Pastel gifts looped around my wrists. Too many people crowding into one frame.

A room overflowing with love.

And love looking a lot like chaos.

At one table sat friends who knew me at fifteen: the loudest, sometimes unfiltered, still making me feel half my age. At another were ones who met me after I had already learned how to run meetings, host workshops, and spreadsheet the hell out of a project. Of course my brother and sister were there too, the keepers of my longest secrets and yet still learning a few new ones. And somewhere in that room was a love story that took three years to unfold—proof that some things are worth the slow burn.

Different eras of my life glowing under the same amber light.

At some point in the evening, my sister stood up to give a speech. She did not get very far.

She started laughing before the second sentence. Eventually, through giggles, she managed to tell the story of the time I got a round brush stuck in my hair while we were praying the rosary. You best believe I was praying so hard for that brush to untangle.

I must have been nine, her seven. She found me in the bathroom, panicking, brush firmly lodged in the front section of my hair that refused to let go. Instead of calling for help, she committed to the bit. She did everything she could to untangle me before the adults found out and throughout my life, she has been my co-conspirator against embarrassment. I still ended up with bangs, but we both got a great story to tell at parties.

This is what it means to grow up with someone. They hold your worst moments gently, but also couldn’t finish telling a story without laughing because, well, neither could I.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I think it takes one to raise an adult, too.

I was raised by the people I grew up with, and we are all still raising each other.

*****

This is my small attempt at writing while I am happy. Resisting the urge to temper joy. Letting it exist on the page without apologizing for it.

I am thirty.

And I feel loved.