Looking Back, Leaning Forward

So here I am… on the edge of 39. Not quite 40. Not really clinging to 30. Just kind of floating in that limbo where you still say things like “back in the day” and forget you are the day.

Turning 39 is weird. It’s like being the last page of a journal—mostly filled, a little wrinkled, but still with a bit of space left for something unexpected.

And it’s got me thinking about the decades behind me. After all, starting a blog is a place for you to just…get it all out there, right?

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The Teens: Cringe, Confidence, and Clearasil

Oh, to be a teenager again. Actually… no thanks.

My teen years were a chaotic blend of bad decisions, overplucked eyebrows, dramatic AIM away messages, and moments of genuine discovery. I cared so much about what everyone thought, while also thinking I already knew everything. (Spoiler: I did not.) Was I too fat, did I have enough friends, did I have the right friends, was I a good sister, daughter, niece, granddaughter, and all the things in between?

Still, there was something beautifully raw about those years. Full of heart, hope, and a whole lot of angst in low-rise jeans and blue eyeliner.

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The Twenties: Broke, Bold, and Figuring It Out

My twenties were all about pretending I had it together. I worked jobs that paid me in coffee and character. I said yes to way too much. I stayed up too late, loved too hard, and made some glorious messes.

There were breakups, breakthroughs, new cities, friendships that felt like family, and a lot of standing in the middle of life thinking, What now?

And that was kind of the point—learning by doing, failing, and getting back up in last night’s eyeliner.

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The Thirties: Babies, Bills, and Big Lessons

Then came my thirties. The decade where I actually started figuring out who I am—and had far less time to overthink it. There were weddings, babies, sleepless nights, and a lot of self-doubt disguised as “just tired.”

I’ve spent much of my thirties learning how to juggle everyone else’s needs while slowly remembering I still have my own. I’ve grown softer and stronger all at once. I’ve let go of a lot. I’ve held on to the things—and people—that matter most.

And now? I’m looking at thirty-nine like it’s the final chapter before a new volume begins.

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So… What’s Next?

Forty is right there. Like a birthday balloon floating just out of reach, equal parts exciting and “how did this happen?”

I thought by now I’d have more answers. And in some ways, I do. But mostly, I just feel more at peace with the not-knowing.

I’ve made mistakes I’ve learned from. I’ve survived days I swore would break me. I’ve laughed until I cried and cried until I laughed. I’ve become someone I genuinely like—even when I’m still a work in progress.

So no, I’m not dreading 40. But I am holding 39 close like the last piece of cake. It’s a little sweet, a little nostalgic, and just messy enough to enjoy fully.

Here’s to the last year of this decade.

Let’s make it count.