In my 2010 journal, I wrote that by 30, I’d be a housewife with twin kids, living in a cozy house with a big yard, a treehouse, and a classic swing hanging from a sturdy tree. I’d spend my days baking bread, reading stories to my children, doing yoga in peace, and watching my bank account grow like sourdough starter on a warm counter.
Instead, I turned 30 still trying (hard) to have our babies, emotionally limping through marriage turbulence, and building a mortgage funded-castle. The bank account is okay la—it just sighs and offers a sarcastic chuckle. No treehouse, but we do have a kamboja tree and a rattan nest swing, the kind that makes you feel like you’re inside a Pinterest board if you squint hard enough. And instead of twin toddlers, I now co-sleep with existential questions, hormonal breakouts, and two cats—perhaps because I never specified the twins had to be human.
Therapy helped. Writing helped. Realizing some of my “strong opinions” were actually unresolved trauma? Groundbreaking. I bake when I feel like it (and get paid sometimes, wow), still enjoy my career, and lean on routines—though they only work if I don’t ghost them mid-week. And I tried
So no, 16-year-old me, the life isn’t quite what you pictured. But it’s got flavor, feral wisdom, and just enough swing to stay upright. It’s not exactly where I thought I’d be—but it’s a damn long way from where I started.
Oh, and by the way—I just submitted an essay to The New York Times Modern Love column. Not bad for someone who only recently got serious about writing, dissecting old flames, and reconstructing the full chaotic timeline of her love life.
From domestic daydreams to literary delusions—baby, we’re evolving.
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