Ah, 30. That looming, mythical number that society insists should arrive with a red carpet of accomplishments: spouse! kids! white picket fence! It’s like being handed a group project at birth titled “How to Human”—except no one gave you the rubric, and the teacher is weirdly invested in your relationship status.

The 20s: a decade of checkboxes and side-eyes

My 20s were a masterclass in “adulting” bingo. Did I check boxes like a caffeine-fueled maniac: Degree? Check. Job? Check. Existential dread disguised as productivity? Checkmate. I even dabbled in hobbies like “pretending to enjoy networking events” and “apologizing to plants I forgot to water.” But despite the gold stars, something felt… off. Like wearing a sweater knitted by societal expectations—itchy and two sizes too small.

Take romance, for instance. Oh, that elusive quest! I treated dating like a mystical scavenger hunt where the prize was a boyfriend-shaped trophy. My strategy? Swipe right on humans who listed “pineapple on pizza” as a personality trait and hope for the best. Spoiler: I never found the map. Instead, I collected a gallery of awkward first-date stories, including the guy who brought his mom to dinner “for vibes” and the one who cried over a plate of calamari. (Turns out, he was allergic.)

Cue well-meaning aunties chirping, “You’ll meet someone when you stop looking!” (Note: Not looking just means you’re really good at Animal Crossing and have memorized the entire Great British Bake Off roster.)

The rut chronicles: when life became a broken record

By 27, my routine was a broken record stuck on Wake, Work, Gym, Scroll, Repeat. My hobbies included staring at ceilings, Googling “Is adulthood a glitch?” and perfecting the art of reheating pizza. I was a hamster on a wheel, except the wheel was capitalism, and the hamster was questioning all her life choices while applying mascara in traffic.

My phone screen time? A cool 9 hours daily. I’d scroll through highlight reels of engagements, promotions, and people who somehow owned both a dog and a succulent. Meanwhile, my plants were on life support, and my love life’s most stable relationship was with my gym’s WiFi password.

The great continental yeet™: a masterclass in chaos

Then came the plot twist: the great continental yeet™. At 28, I traded my comfort zone for a suitcase, Duolingo’s shaky promises, and a “What’s the worst that could happen?” attitude. (“Improving my English” was my cover story. I just wanted to see if I could survive without knowing the local word for “toaster.”

Moving continents wasn’t a detour—it was a demolition derby on Life’s Autobahn. Suddenly, everything was new: language blunders (“No, I did NOT just ask for a ‘husband’ instead of ‘napkins’!”), grocery store misadventures (“Is this yogurt or face cream? Only one way to find out!”), and the thrilling panic of “Wait, is this a trash can or modern art?” I became a chaos connoisseur, savoring instability like a fine wine. (Tasting notes: confusion, hints of “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and a lingering aftertaste of “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”)

I learned to embrace the art of failing upward. Did you get lost in a train station? Congrats, you’ve discovered a hidden park! Accidentally order squid ink pasta? Now you’re a foodie influencer’s nightmare! My life became a blooper reel, and I was oddly here for it.

Chaos: my new love language

Here’s the kicker: 30 stopped being a deadline and morphed into a launchpad. Instead of “What have I done?” I asked, “What can I do?” I swapped societal checkboxes for a blank canvas, splattering it with experiences, mistakes, and the occasional questionable haircut. (RIP, my bangs era.)

I discovered that “stability” isn’t a noun—it’s a verb. It’s not a house or a ring; it’s the ability to laugh when your luggage gets lost or when you accidentally join a protest march thinking it’s a street festival. (Solidarity, my fellow confused tourists!)

Dear 30s: let’s build a playground

With months left in my 20s, I’m not scrambling to “achieve”—I’m too busy planting seeds. Some for future-me’s garden (career goals, hobbies that require actual effort), others just because dandelions are pretty. I’ve started salsa classes despite having the rhythm of a startled flamingo. I’m learning to cook dishes that don’t involve microwaves. I’ve even befriended a pigeon named Greg. (He’s a vibe.)

I don’t own a house, and my love life’s a rom-com without the “rom.” And I’m weirdly jazzed about it. Because here’s the secret no one tells you: You don’t have to want what everyone else wants. The “dream life” isn’t a monolith—it’s a buffet. Some folks load up on marriage and mortgages; I’m over here stacking my plate with solo travel and nap quotas.

Your turn: permission to detonate the script

Life isn’t a syllabus; it’s a choose-your-own-adventure book where the dragons are self-doubt and the treasure is self-love. So here’s my invitation to you: Pause. Breathe. Ask, “Is this my path or a path someone handed me?”

Book that pottery class. Move to Bali. Adopt a llama. Or just nap. Your 30s (or 40s, or 90s) aren’t a deadline—they’re a permission slip to live unapologetically you.

Still stuck? Try this: Write down the “shoulds” haunting your brain (“I should be married by now,” “I should want kids”) and set them on fire. (Metaphorically. Unless you’re into pyrotechnics—you do you.) Replace them with “coulds”: “I could learn Thai,” “I could start a TikTok about cloud shapes,” “I could eat cake for breakfast.”