I spent the majority of my mid and late twenties worrying about turning thirty. Subconsciously, I felt as if that would be my expiration date as a woman. I don’t think anyone had overtly said anything of that nature to my face. It was a more subtle message, fed to me by society. An underlying feeling, a dread, a fear. I wish I could say that this obsession was a struggle that I could blame on myself, a figment of my own imagination. Yet I have the strong suspicion that this is a common experience. It’s more than just a suspicion, actually. It’s everywhere: A simple Google search suffices to reveal the collective anxiety many women feel surrounding that mysterious number thirty.
The chick-flick “Thirteen Going On Thirty” offers a stark contrast to that sentiment: “I wanna be thirty. Thirty and flirty and thriving”, the protagonist Jenna Rink (played by Jennifer Garner) confesses as fairy dust is about to make her dream come true. The young girl imagines that all her teenage troubles would dissolve if only she was older, and had her life together. To her, thirty seems like magic, like a promise.
When I first came across that movie, I must have been 23 or so, I found her excitement odd. Why did this girl feel so fascinated by a threshold I tried to stay as far away from as I possibly could? What would be so special about leaving your twenties? The decade I was in, so I believed, was a woman’s prime. It’s now or never, I thought. What an insane pressure to put on yourself.
I rewatched this movie on my 30th birthday with some good friends of mine. And just like magic, something clicked. Was it a decision or a realization? I don’t know. As the fairy dust transformed Jenna into her 30-year-old self, I became accepting, even excited, about this new age. A glorious age indeed, as I was about to discover for myself.
This was the year I invested in myself more than ever before. Not in a forced way, it all happened so naturally. The gym became my second home. I spent quality time with myself—journaling, reading books on philosophical perspectives of self-image. I dusted off my favorite works of poetry and rediscovered my love for Khalil Gibran, Rilke and Shakespeare. I allowed myself to indulge in these long-forgotten passions once again. I started to take an interest in dressing myself well, in improving my makeup, in being more punctual. Sometimes, I even meditated — though I’ll admit I didn’t stick to the habit.
I dared myself to get out of my comfort zone, to meet new people, to hold eye contact, to smile. It was this year I taught myself to laugh at my fears, and my haters (side note: maybe haters are really just lovers with a bit of spice). The heavy concern with being judged seemed to melt off me. Suddenly I was like: “Hello world, this is who I am and who I’d like to be. And you’ll somehow have to deal with it.”
I learned to stand up for myself, especially when my boundaries were crossed, and refused to remain a notorious people-pleaser. I found out it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need other’s approval to feel safe anymore. Because I had created a safety within myself that didn’t depend on it. The realization that I’ll actually survive, even when not everybody likes me, was hard-won yet liberating.
It was like a switch had been turned and the light had gone on. Everything became clearer. In the light, things that had been only dark silhouettes took on shape. My vision sharpened. And some shadows lost their scare.
As it turned out, they’ve been lying to us all along: the media, the gremlin thoughts in our minds, toxic advertisements, and the proponents of the so-called “preventative botox”. The list of my anxieties about aging was long, the answer to all of them extremely short and catchy: Thirty, flirty and thriving. This little mantra became my new reality. When things got challenging, as they inevitably do, no matter your age, I kept returning to it: Defiantly, proudly, grinning with a little sass.
I discovered that, much like Jenna, we all find out that every age comes with its own challenges. And our inner teenager is always accompanying us. It can feel at times like we are just thirteen year old girls in adult bodies, acting all grown-up. Yet therein lies the magic: We never really lose our younger selves. And if you do it right, sometimes you can tap into their perspective.
I read somewhere that there are only two people worth impressing: Your 8-year-old self and your 80-year-old self. I’m right in between those versions, doing my best for them both.
***
On another note: Outside the Western gaze, age is often revered. In many cultures, aging isn’t viewed as a detriment but a gain of wisdom, status, and self-possession. When reaching another age is something to look forward to, it is something that represents another milestone. Each new age can be a new celebration of you, of new perspectives adding to hard-won insights.
A random recommendation: Should you, dear reader, find yourself in a similar spot -whether it’s despairing or rejoicing over the fact that you are crossing that dreaded threshold- please do yourself a favor and watch the show Fleabag. Phoebe Waller-Bridge is the patron saint of all women in their thirties. The ultimate cure to all our problems. The sassy fairy godmother we never knew we needed.
Epilogue
I suppose this is a discussion for another day, but I don’t think this inner turmoil and pressure affect men in the same way. Not even close. I’m not going to deny that they have their own battles with societal expectations. But generally speaking, I’d say that the thirties are the time most people would consider a man to be in his prime. And I see no reason, whatsoever, to not let women claim that same narrative for themselves. So why don’t we? Ffs.
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