Well folks, thirty came and went and now I’m a year older, and wow, what a year it has been. I like to think I am much wiser today than I was this time last year, but I have decided that I will forever be a work in progress and that’s alright with me. I learned a lot this year about myself and for that I am thankful.
I went into my thirties thinking, this was it, this was what I’d been searching for all my life. I was convinced that I was going to wake up on November 14th to a picture perfect life—I was going to finally have it all figured it.
I would be so much more mature, sophisticated, and stylish. I would wear lipstick every day and look old enough to have a child that was almost taller than me. I was going to be a good bible study Christian, and old wounds would be healed instantly. I’d be put together at all times, I would be patient with my child, and my husband, and for the love, I’d stop crying so easily.
My house would smell like fresh baked cookies every night of the week, and every meal would be homemade. I would rock a messy bun on top of my head all while making an apron look cute. And all of our friends and family would receive their holiday cards before February.
Then suddenly I realized that in the process of becoming the 30 year old I had envisioned I forgot to be the 30 year old I already was.
And the life I’d so expertly crafted, and Instagram filtered, came tumbling down. And out from the wreckage came the woman I’d been trying so hard to reconstruct, and to my surprise I learned that I kind of, actually, really liked her.
She was messy, and complicated, and her sarcasm teeter tottered between immature and inappropriate. Her lipstick lasted until her coffee was finished, and her oversized mug wore it the rest of the day. She finally made peace with the fact that Jesus loves church goers and car radio worshipers all the same. Her old wounds, well they are still there, but she’s working through them with a little help from the man upstairs. She doesn’t know how to do put together, but that’s what makes her, her. She’s simple and complex all mixed into one. She’s impatient, and overly emotional, and you’ll find that her most worn accessory is her heart on her sleeve.
She loves to cook…four days out of the week. You’ll find no aprons in her kitchen, but you will find messy buns, buttered buns, cinnamon buns, and really cute wrangler covered buns. And you might get a holiday card, you might not, she’s unpredictable and oftentimes forgetful, but it’s the thought that counts and she’s probably thought about sending you a card since last December.
So here I am. A year older, still completely confused on what having it all figured out really means.
But if getting to a place where I can say —”I really enjoy who I am”—is the secret, then folks, I have it all figured out.
Cheers to 31, I better go order my holiday cards before I forget.