turning 30 without a plus one

what I thought 29 would fix and what it actually taught me

May 06, 2026

Last year I wrote an essay about turning 29 without a plus one. It was a reality my younger self would’ve been disappointed in. At the time, writing it felt like a revelation. It helped me realize I wasn’t as behind as I thought and not nearly as sad as I expected to be. If anything, I felt a little free. But what I didn’t realize was that the year ahead wasn’t going to be a smooth landing into self-assurance—no clear runway, no sense of arrival. If anything, 29 was the year that everything got stripped back.

28 had been loud in all of the ways you hope for. I published my debut novel. I went on a six city book tour. I got a puppy. There was momentum, attention, a version of my life that looked (from the outside) like things were clicking into place. It felt like I was finally stepping into something I had worked toward for years. Then 29 came and everything got softer. There was less noise, less external validation, less of that constant forward motion and without all of that to focus on, there was nowhere left to look but inward.

I didn’t spend 29 trying to accelerate anything (although, I did start Hot Girls Who Write). I didn’t chase the next milestone or try to recreate the high of the year before. Instead, I spent it sitting in moments that I used to rush past and letting things be still long enough to actually understand how I felt about them.

Don’t get me wrong, it was uncomfortable at times. There’s a certain disorientation that comes with realizing you’ve outgrown parts of your life that once felt so certain—relationships that no longer fit the way they used to, patterns you can’t unsee, expectations you didn’t realize you were carrying. For a while, that level of awareness made me feel more behind than I ever had before. It’s one thing to not have something but it’s another to understand exactly why and to know you’re no longer willing to settle for a version of it that isn’t right. And somewhere between the long days working from coffee shops and the slower nights writing, drinking wine on my couch, and turning things over in my head, I realized things felt different.

I’m two weeks away from turning 30, and for the first time in my life, I feel content.

Which is funny, because at 17, I was asked on my SAT essay whether I believed contentment equaled happiness. I said no. I was so convinced that contentment meant settling—that it was something people chose when they got tired of wanting more. To me, happiness was ambition and the constant pursuit of something better. Now I realize I just didn’t understand the question yet. This version of contentment that I’m in doesn’t feel like giving up. It doesn’t feel passive or stagnant or “blah.” It feels earned. It feels like knowing yourself well enough to stop chasing things that were never right for you in the first place. And more than anything, it feels like happiness.

I trust myself now in a way I didn’t before. I trust my body—what it needs, what it’s telling me, how it feels to exist in it without constantly trying to change it. I trust my relationships, the ones that remained and deepened, the ones I chose intentionally instead of falling into out of habit or convenience.

I trust my work, too, but differently. I trust it less from a place of proving and more from a place of knowing now that I’m not chasing validation in the same way I used to. I understand what I bring to the table, and I’m building something that reflects that, whether it’s loud or not.

Maybe the biggest difference though is the way I view time now.

I’ve been treating 30 like the biggest deadline I’ve ever been given. I thought that by my 30th birthday everything would click into place or I would need to work harder to make sure it would. I was always looking ahead, convinced that the next phase of my life was where everything would finally make sense. But in doing that, I was wishing away the life I was already in.

Days, weeks, and entire years were spent focused on where I thought I should be instead of where I actually was. I was waiting for things to start instead of recognizing that they already had. Then I got here and nothing happened. There was no big arrival. No moment where everything suddenly made sense—no wheels hitting the ground, no announcement that I had finally landed. Instead, I came to the realization that my life isn’t waiting for me somewhere in the future—not when I meet someone, not when I hit a milestone, not when everything looks the way I once imagined it would—it’s happening now.

Is it scary turning 30 without a plus one? Maybe. But I’m okay with it. And not in a “I’ve convinced myself that I don’t care” kind of way. In a real and honest way.

I’ve learned how to enjoy my own company. I’ve learned to sit with myself without trying to fix or distract from what I find there. I’ve built a life that feels full on its own. Of course I still want love, but I know I’d be okay if it took longer than I expected or even if it never arrived at all.

Probably Oversharing

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