This is 32.

Yesterday I turned 32 years old. For me, 32 feels like 30 in terms of the social pressures that come with hitting a landmark age. There is a stereotype—and a bazillion thinkpieces—about women approaching 30 with a mix of apprehension and tears, particularly if the pieces of their lives don't seem as clear-cut as they hoped they'd be by that age.

32 feels like that for me.

Approaching my 30th birthday didn't seem like any sort of big deal. Generally speaking, I think getting older is pretty rad, and in the words of my fictional soul partner Nick Miller, "I finally feel like I'm aging into my personality." But when my 30th rolled around, the day's importance shifted entirely when my grandfather passed away. There's nothing like death to make you think about how you are living your life. Then, on my 31st birthday, I struggled with celebrating on what to me felt like a day of remembrance. The words "happy" and "birthday"—however well-intended—seemed so wrong together, and I hated the fake cheer I felt like I had to put on for those wishing me well. 

So, when the blues started to roll in over my head a few weeks ago, I first attributed it to the mixed feelings that now seem to be a standard part of every January 21; I'd become accustomed to a certain level of sadness associated with the day.

But no, this was something more—I could tell it from the weight sitting on my chest. The way panic seemed to be waiting on just the other side of my front door, ready to knock. The sudden urge to purge 90% of my belongings and chop off my hair (which, after two glasses of wine, I actually convinced my husband to do for me).

And I know when my hair gets involved, I'm dealing with some shit. Here's the thing: I'm nowhere near where I thought I'd be at 32. I can't think of many people in my life who are 32 and don't have the "big pieces" of life figured out—the career, the home, the 2.5 children. I do have a great husband and a constantly evolving marriage, which I don't want to discount, but I'm a bit of a flailing mess when it comes to the rest. I'm not even sure what I want 98% of the time, and 32 feels too old to not know. On some days I cry over how amazing some of these beautiful little humans are that my friends have created, and on others I literally cannot imagine anything more terrifying. Besides, is a person who recently spent 45 minutes debating whether to buy a koala onesie really qualified to be anyone's parent?! Maybe I just need to get another cat, or eight. And careers, don't even get me started. If I were magically granted one self-improvement wish, it would be career clarity—to be the kind of person that feels that gut sense of knowing their purpose and direction, and to be rooted in that.

*SIGH.* Welcome, readers, to the crazy part of my brain. Can I blame some of this on the new moon and mercury in retrograde, plz?

Getting into a mental tizzy and writing it all out here sort of makes me laugh. These thoughts have been here before, and I know they've surfed in again on the wave of my 32nd birthday. Time markers like birthdays or new years have a way of doing that to me, and that seems especially true now that 32 is The Time for real career progress and babies in my brain/society.

Last night I picked up Shauna Niequist's book Cold Tangerines, and the very first essay describes how we seem to mentally wait around for the big moments to strike us, marking a clear delineation between "Before" and "After." Graduation, wedding, having a baby, getting promoted—and it is after those events that we feel like we can consider ourselves smart, loved, successful. But Shauna reminds us that our life happens in the in between.

"The Big Moment, unfortunately, is an urban myth. [...] Life is a collection of a million, billion moments, tiny little moments and choices, like a handful of luminous, glowing pearls. And strung together, built upon one another, lined up through the days and the years, they make a life, a person. It takes so much time, and so much work, and those beads and moments are so small, and so much less fabulous and dramatic than the movies. 

But this is what I'm finding, in glimpses and flashes: this is it. This is it, in the best possible way. That thing I'm waiting for, that adventure, that movie-score-worthy experience unfolding gracefully. This is it. Normal, daily life ticking by on our streets and sidewalks, in our houses and apartments, in our beds and at our dinner tables, in our dreams and prayers and fights and secrets—this pedestrian life is the most precious thing any of us will ever experience."

Picking up this book last night was one of those perfect, serendipitous moments of finding the right words exactly when I needed them. Because when the swells of crazy thoughts ebb away—which they always do—I am left with gratitude and a sweet affection towards this existence. Questions and doubts and all. I do feel like I'm living from my heart and my values, and that counts for a lot; the external stuff is just shiny pennies, as Jess Lively would put it.

I don't have any grand thoughts or lessons to end this post with, so I will leave you with more words from my beloved Nick Miller: "It's a weird life, but it's where I'm at right now."

{Top image via Death to the Stock Photo}