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I turned 30 years old yesterday and among the many well wishes and the happy sentiments were a few apologies and even some sympathetic looks. I’ve said it before (last year) that I’ve always looked at age 30 as a milestone representing the threshold between young and old; however, as this particular birthday approached, I not only realized this milestone is far from meaning I’m old but it also brought with it a feeling of hope and excitement that I’ve missed from numerous ages before.

My thirties will see my daughter transition from ages 3-13 and within that time frame her mother and I will see our efforts of parenting challenged and rewarded at every turn. Maybe we’ll explore the option of having another at some point… another child, another house, another career.  

Or maybe not.

Maybe my thirties will find me in the best shape of my life by replacing current habits with healthier options. Maybe I’ll find that better version of myself that I’m constantly in search of… a more patient, a more kind, a more understanding version of myself that my thirties will encourage into fruition. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe my thirties will pave the road to dreams achieved and reveal doors to open that present more to chase. Maybe I’ll finally write one of the novels I’ve written over and over in my head and climb the mountain of publishing a manuscript of my own.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I have disillusions of grandeur regarding the next decade of my life, but there’s only one way to find out. I’ll take each year as it’s given to me and give myself completely in return. Maybe by some standards, age 30 is a depressing one offered to dwell on the glory days of your twenties and teens... but I think not. 

There’s no maybe about that.

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