Being 30

Three is a lucky number. Thirty is ten threes. Ten threes may not be as lucky as nine threes or even six or three threes, but still. It’s lucky.

I used to dread turning 30, but then I turned 27. 28. 29. Time creeps forward, whether we’re paying attention or not. So I choose to embrace this year of being ten threes, and want to spend it with purpose.

No wrinkles appeared around my eyes when I woke up. No lightning bolt of wisdom struck me. My clothes did not transform into hooded cloaks in the night (though it’d be cool if they did).

Thirty happened the way every other birthday happens: Slowly, over the course of the year, the months, the weeks, the days. It happened over the course of deaths and loss, over the course of illness and setbacks, over the course of new friends and goals met, over the course of endings and beginnings.

And, thankfully, it happened with many of my dearest friends and family—some of whom drove great distances to see me–doing things I love: book shopping, spending a day at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, getting the breakfast buffet at Happy Days and having my annual allotment of creamed chipped beef.

I don’t know what this year will bring, though the cards suggest some interesting things. All I can do is write every day I’m able, send my work into the world, take care of myself as best I can, and continue loving the people (and dogs) I love.

Here’s to 30, and all the things it might bring.