OMG. I still can’t believe I’ll be turning 30 tomorrow.

There’s something surreal about reaching this number—like I’ve just blinked and suddenly completed a third of my life. For a moment, it felt like I was standing in front of an invisible hourglass, watching the sands slip by too quickly, too quietly. Some people say turning 30 marks the end of youth. Others call it the true beginning of adulthood. But as I sit here tonight, I choose neither fear nor pressure. I choose presence. I choose gratitude. I choose to celebrate the extraordinary gift of being alive—because turning 30 is, in every sense of the word, awesome.

Another year of life is not just a marker of time—it’s a miracle. After everything we’ve collectively lived through in the past few years—uncertainty, lockdowns, goodbyes said over screens, and frontline battles with an unseen enemy—I know now more than ever how fragile life is. I’ve stood in the heart of it all as a health worker, feeling the weight of PPE on my shoulders and the heaviness of grief in my chest. I’ve witnessed moments that changed me, softened me, and reminded me how precious every breath is. And so this birthday? It’s not just a milestone. It’s a quiet, powerful victory. A whispered thank You, Lord echoing from the deepest part of my soul.

Another year of life is not just a marker of time—it’s a miracle

My twenties—oh, what a ride they’ve been. A kaleidoscope of glorious chaos, filled with detours and dance breaks, heartbreaks and healing, redirections and rediscoveries. I stumbled. I soared. I questioned everything. I fell in love—with people, with purpose, with myself. I chased dreams across oceans and walked into rooms I once prayed to enter. There were moments that almost broke me—and yet, somehow, they built me. I became wiser in the process, a little more grounded, and a lot more grateful. I still remember the joys of growing up in the ’90s—Britney on MTV, Leonardo on every teenage girl’s wall, the comforting click of a Nokia 3310 keypad, the pixelated charm of The Sims, and the late-night confessions shared over Yahoo Messenger. That girl? She still lives inside me. But now, she walks with a woman who has learned to carry both joy and responsibility, softness and strength.

Turning 30 has gifted me a quiet kind of clarity. I’ve learned to slow down, to stop racing against other people’s timelines. I’ve unlearned the need to explain myself to those who don’t really listen. I’ve protected my peace like sacred ground, choosing to walk away from what no longer serves me. I’ve stopped performing perfection and started showing up as I am—messy, healing, unfinished. I’ve begun nurturing the parts of me I once silenced: the playful child, the wide-eyed dreamer, the girl who still cries during Disney movies and believes in handwritten letters. I’ve made peace with my pace. I’ve stopped punishing myself for not being further along. And I’ve found that the most beautiful progress is the kind that no one claps for—the slow becoming, the quiet strengthening, the inner rebuilding.

And tomorrow, I’ll celebrate this new chapter a thousand miles away from home. It’ll be my first birthday spent far from the familiar warmth of family hugs and childhood routines. But there will be cake in the park, laughter shared with new friends, and maybe—if the weather is kind—a little sunshine to dance across my face. Still, even if the skies stay grey, I know the real light I’m after isn’t in the forecast. It’s in me.

Trust your unfolding. Let it be slow. Let it be yours.

To you, reading this—whether you’re 30 or 60 or still figuring things out—I hope you remember this: your life is not on hold. You are not behind. You are not too late. You are not too much or too little. You are becoming exactly who you’re meant to be, in exactly your own time. Don’t let the noise of timelines and checklists drown out the quiet miracle of your journey. Trust your unfolding. Let it be slow. Let it be yours.

So here’s to 30. To growth without guilt. To grace without condition. To starting again as many times as it takes. To learning that sometimes, the best things in life don’t follow a plan—they follow your heart.

Thank You, Papa Jesus, for everything. For the storms that shaped me, the detours that defined me, and the strength I never knew I had. I walk into this next chapter not with fear, but with joy. And that, I think, is the best gift of all.

With love,
Anj