I turned thirty and I’m okay.
I survived another university unit and I’m done for the semester.
I’m stretching out birthday celebrations because I can.
I’ve devoured a novel in under 24 hours, and drank champagne, scrutinised my face for wrinkles, looked back on the goals of the past year, and wondered what this new one will bring.
You never become the person God intends, unless you become intentional.
I have an excitement in my bones for the next chapter and set off with continued intention.
Despite having reached goals, and lived intentionally this year I’ve still had numerous failings, missed opportunities, and fear has immobilised me on the occasions I should have kept going forward.
A new year, a new day for that matter, is always a chance to refocus and keep going.
We have started thinking about Christmas, and our plans for next year.
We will have a new edition, a furry one, come December (a puppy!)
And I have one term left to enjoy my real baby before she starts kindy next year – something that fills me with equal parts dread and excitement.
I’m not sure where I am heading with this blog, and feel called to something bigger, some distant change – but until then, I’ll sporadically ramble thoughts on this page and capture memories. A month-long sabbatical here has given me the itch to write.
And thirty year olds are obviously much better writers and have plenty more wisdom than twenty-nine year olds; I even have a few grey hairs to prove it.