The unbridled joy of getting older

I love getting older.

Growing up, I couldn’t wait to become a 20-something.

To get older and make my own decisions. Plan things for my own place. Make my own picky weekly menu and then slash items from day 4 and 5 when I made last minute plans to  go meet a friend.

When I would lie awake in bed at night as a little kid, I would repeatedly picture myself doing the most mundane adult thing: grocery shopping in a big supermarket with a cart and free will to pick up as many cereal boxes as I liked.

I like to think of this as the first of my many visions in my mental vision board that I manifested.

The happiness of visiting an Albert Heijn when I first moved to the Netherlands in 2021 was unparalleled for the first six months. And I must admit: to date, I still don’t make for a great grocery shopping partner because I am truly like a kid in a candy store—getting distracted by all the fruit I haven’t yet tried and neatly stacked spice blends and sauce combos that seem to be calling my name from aisle 4.

I recently finished reading Dolly Alderton’s Everything I know about love. And one of the many things that stuck with me was Dolly’s initial hesitation of turning 30.

Turning 30 had been marketed to us girlies in women’s magazines and 90s sitcoms as reaching the beginning of your best by date. You’d still be good to eat, just wouldn’t taste the same anymore.

There were rules attached to this: you must start using retinol (or whatever new magical compound was making the rounds), get a cosmetologist degree overnight to understand all of its different chemical forms and formulations, start reading about Botox and kind of have your life together. Have a firm grasp on your career, find love and start ticking to the sound of your “biological clock” whether or not you naturally gravitate towards motherhood.

So I get Dolly’s feelings.

I almost expected myself to feel the same way.

And yet I couldn’t be happier at turning 29 and staring my last year in my 20s in the face.

I’ve gotten more time to grow. From moving to a different country to tip-toeing and testing the waters a couple more times to maybe move again, not knowing where I’ll live in the next ten years. Trying on countries like summer dresses in a well-lit trial room, looking at how it fits on extended holidays and growing more and more into one than the other.

I’ve learnt how to ride a bike, gotten slightly more used to only hearing the sound of my own thoughts sometimes, and gotten more into myself. As if with every passing year, I’m crushing on myself a little more.

I’ve found my people, made connections that feel like I’ve known them forever, and distanced out from others. Letting some friends go as I grow out of them like my favourite pair of high-waisted dark wash jeans that I loved back in 2022 but are now too snug around my waist when I eat.

I’ve worked at jobs that felt ecstatic at the start and then slowly started chipping away at me. Switched careers, once and then again. And now, maybe once more.

I’ve worked on becoming kinder to those around me and I’m still learning to be kinder to myself.

And I’m realising that my body, just like my life, does not have to go through an often-thought bell curve: there doesn’t have to be a peak, just different seasons and chapters.

The night before my birthday this year I reflected on versions of me so far and I realised I’m now in the beginning of a fourth life. Something in the last year and a half changed who I was and more importantly, where I’m heading.

I think you go through many versions of yourself as you age. Think of them like the universe sending you little mostly well-packaged soul updates. It patches some reported bugs and comes with some really cool features and functionalities you didn’t think could exist, if only you figure out how to install it the right way.

I can’t promise that there wouldn’t be any self-destructive, trying to grasp on to the ending bits of my twenties behaviour. But I know that it’s just going to be a part of my own personal cocooning.

I recently spotted two hard-earned grays and I couldn’t be prouder. I started noticing the concealer settling into creases under my eyes  that didn’t exist before, getting cozier in my skin with every big-toothed smile. And tiny little reminders of the sun dotting on my arms for every summer I’ve lived.

At 29, I can’t wait to become 30, and then 35, 40 and many more. To see where all my different soul updates would lead me. To collect more silly little knick-knacks, embarrassing stories, big throated cries and laughter that’s louder than the music I play that annoys my neighbour at 2 am on a Friday night.