“I Thought I’d Be Further By Now“

When I was younger, I used to imagine exactly where I’d be in my thirties.

TV and movies played a huge part in my vision. They made it all seem so clear. So structured.

Would I be like Joan Clayton from Girlfriends—thriving in my career but still searching for love, the husband, the children?

Or maybe like Mary Jane Paul from Being Mary Jane—successful, independent, a little overwhelmed but still making it look good?

What I never imagined… was this version of thirty.

I never imagined a life that didn’t feel stable yet.
I never imagined still figuring things out.
I never imagined the gap between who I thought I’d be… and who I’m still becoming.

And if I’m being honest?

I always feared I’d be the woman who had it all together.
The one everyone depended on.
The one taking care of everybody else.

But here I am at thirty…
and that’s just not my reality.

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I won’t pretend like I haven’t accomplished a lot.

Because I have.

I have a journalism degree.
A digital marketing certification.
My own makeup service business.

On paper, that should feel like something.

But social media has a way of making “something” feel like nothing.

It’s the quiet comparisons.
The timelines that don’t match.
The constant reminder of where you think you should be.

Financially, I’m not where I want to be.
Personally, I’m still learning myself.

And that part?
That part has been the hardest.

Because nobody really talks about what it feels like to meet yourself…
and realize there are things you don’t like.
Habits you need to break.
Versions of you that can’t come with you into your next chapter.

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There’s this unspoken expectation that by thirty, everything should make sense.

Your career.
Your money.
Your relationships.
Your purpose.

But what if it doesn’t?

What if thirty isn’t the destination…
but the reality check?

The moment where you realize:
you’ve been surviving, building, becoming…

…but not quite arrived.

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I’m learning that growth doesn’t always look like progress.

Sometimes it looks like starting over.
Sometimes it looks like discomfort.
Sometimes it looks like sitting with yourself long enough to admit:

“This isn’t the life I want… yet.”

And that “yet” is HEAVY.

Because I’m not done.

I’m not behind.
I’m just in a chapter that doesn’t get glamorized.

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Maybe this is what thirty really is.

Not the highlight reel.
Not the final form.

But the in-between.

The becoming.
The unlearning.
The rebuilding.

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And maybe… just maybe…

that’s enough for right now.