As I prepare to turn 29 this Sunday, July 7th, I find myself wrapped in a soft, quiet kind of reflection—the kind that settles in your chest when the candles are about to be lit and you realize: another chapter is ending. Just one more year left in my twenties. One more year in this stretch of becoming. And what a ride it has been—a rollercoaster, really. One filled with high climbs and deep dips, heart-pounding moments of joy and uncertainty, and a thousand little turns I never saw coming. I’ve gasped, grown, broken, healed, survived, and—most importantly—kept moving forward.

This past year, more than any other, has humbled me. It made me sit with my shadows and recognize the light within them. It asked me to shed old skin, let go of things I thought I’d need forever, and accept the truth that not everything—and not everyone—is meant to stay. I’ve stumbled and re-centered. I’ve sat in silence, cried in gratitude, and whispered prayers I didn’t always know how to end. And through it all, I’ve come to embrace the unpredictable rhythm of growth, the messy art of becoming—not just older, but deeper.

So before I cross into the final year of this wild, wonder-filled decade, allow me to offer you something close to my heart: 29 lessons I’ve learned in my 29 years of living, loving, breaking, healing, and hoping.

I’ve learned to think long-term—not just a year ahead, but ten or twenty. The best things take time, and patience is its own kind of power. I’ve stopped comparing. We only ever see what others allow us to see, and truthfully, no two timelines are ever the same. I’ve learned not to make decisions based on other people’s opinions, because I’m the one who has to live with the outcome. And not everyone will like me—and that’s okay. Some people don’t dislike you; they just dislike your light. Shine anyway.

Discipline, I’ve learned, is like a muscle. If you don’t use it, you lose it. But moderation, too, is a hidden fountain of youth. You don’t have to live in extremes to live fully. Sometimes, yes, you eat the cake. Sometimes, that one meal becomes the comfort your soul didn’t know it needed.

Forgiveness doesn’t always come with an apology. It often arrives uninvited—but brings peace when welcomed. I’ve learned that God loves us, even when we feel unworthy—especially when we feel unworthy. Listen deeply, yes. But never lose your own voice in the process. And remember that money and time? They change people. Pay attention to who stays kind.

Time is never really ours to control. You can plan everything down to the detail and still be rerouted by grace. Failure is a teacher, sometimes harsh, always honest. Wait well. What’s meant for you will never be rushed, and never be withheld. Life will never be smooth sailing, but you can learn to ride the waves. The storms, after all, teach you more than calm seas ever will.

Your parents? Irreplaceable. Call them. Love them. See them while you can. Life is fleeting. You are temporary. But you are also capable of living with purpose. You always have a choice—in how you respond, how you forgive, and how you begin again.

Do the thing. Don’t wait for perfection. Start scared if you must. Don’t force connections—if people want to stay, they will. Let those who don’t go in peace. We all need help. Even the strongest people get tired. Ask. Receive. Rest. Repeat.

Pain will mature you. Growth is rarely gentle—but always worthwhile. Adversity reveals truth, especially about the people closest to you. When motivation fades, visualize your goals. Picture them. Walk toward them. You’re allowed to change your mind. That’s not weakness—it’s evolution. Some words are better left unsaid. Silence can be sacred. Protect your peace.

Never underestimate anyone. Everyone is fighting a battle you cannot see. Be kind anyway. And above all, let gratitude guide you. There are people praying for what you already have. Even on your worst days, you’re still surrounded by grace.

And perhaps the most freeing truth I’ve learned? I know very little—and that’s okay. I don’t need to have all the answers to be worthy of this life. I don’t need certainty to move forward. I don’t need to be perfect to be loved.

I’m still becoming. Still unfolding. Still learning. But I welcome it now—the lessons, the unknowns, the cracks where light gets in. I’m stepping into 29 not with pressure, but with hope. Not with fear, but with curiosity. Not with a need to prove myself, but with a deeper desire to know myself—and to honor the God who’s carried me through every messy, magical step of the way.

If you’re reading this, thank you—for being part of my journey, for cheering quietly in the background, or for walking beside me even when I didn’t always know where the road would lead. You matter to me.

Here’s to 29—and all that lies beyond.

With love,
Anj 🤍