When I was eighteen, somewhere between college corridors and the first taste of adult freedom, I had a very specific vision of what thirty would feel like. I imagined I would wake up on my 30th birthday with the composure of a woman who owned matching crockery and a five-year plan.

a fantasy of age

I thought I would feel like Jenna Rink in 13 Going on 30, wide-eyed but polished, ambitious but entirely certain, mature in a way that suggested I knew exactly who I was and where I was heading.

When I pictured thirty, I also thought of Carrie Bradshaw walking confidently through Manhattan in impractical heels, narrating her life as if every heartbreak was column material. I didn’t anticipate that real independence is lighter than that, even though my own Mr Big would go on to steal my entire twenties.

It’s certainly less about fabulous chaos and more focused on paying your own bills without panic. It’s hardly dramatic love affairs, more so declining what doesn't align anymore. There’s no voiceover or soundtrack. Just you, deciding, again and again, what feels right.

a softer shan, pls

I didn’t foresee that instead of wanting more, I would want less. Whether it be urgency or proving myself. I assumed adulthood would be defined by accumulation, more achievements, milestones, or clarity, but instead, it feels weirdly defined by subtraction. Learning what to remove and protecting my peace like it is something sacred and fragile... because it is.

The most surprising thing about turning thirty is that I do know what I want now. It just isn’t what I expected. I want small joys and little wins that don’t need to be announced. I want early evenings and quiet mornings. I want peppermint tea warming my hands instead of vodka burning my throat. I want a life that feels calm in my nervous system, not impressive on a grid. I want a soft life, in the aesthetic sense and an emotional one. Think coastal granddaughter vibes.

the rehearsal years

There’s something about this age that feels true to adulthood, not because everything is figured out, but you’re no longer pretending that it is. Your twenties are a rehearsal. You try on identities like you once tried on Juicy Couture tracksuits. You make bold statements about who you are and who you will be. You believe intensity is direction. You think chaos is passion, and convince yourself that exhaustion is ambition.

In my twenties, I’m pretty sure I confused presentation with protection. I wouldn’t leave the house without a thick wing of eyeliner, and I rarely wore my hair back because it made me feel too exposed. At the time it felt necessary. I still love beauty, I always will, but I don’t rely on it in the same way. Some days I leave the house bare-faced, hair tied up, and nothing dramatic happens. It’s a small thing, but it feels like proof that I’m more comfortable being seen as I am.

thirty feels different

And yet, paradoxically, as we settle into this steadiness, we begin to circle back to the joy we had as children, only this time without the shame of being uncool.

I collect Bratz dolls again. The same shiny lips and dramatic shoes that once lined the shelves of my childhood bedroom now sit in my adult home, unapologetically. Sometimes I think about the little girl who sold her dolls at the local car boot sale because she believed growing up meant letting go of whimsy. I ache for her in a way that’s tender rather than regretful. I wish I could tell her that adulthood would eventually give her permission to love those joys again, that one day she would buy back the sparkle with her own money and no one would be able to tell her it was silly.

returning to girlhood

It’s deeply satisfying reclaiming your childhood joys with adult autonomy. Buying the fancy laneige lip balm. Spending too long in a bookshop. Re-reading Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging just to experience a piece of girlhood again. Still wearing Britney Spears perfume because it reminds you of being fourteen. Letting yourself be earnest about things. Adulthood, as it turns out, is not the abandonment of whimsy; it’s the privilege to curate it.

I thought by now I would know whether I was getting married, if I was having children, whether I had met the person I would build a life with. I imagined a timeline that would click neatly into place. Instead, I find myself in a far more open space. I don’t know exactly how those parts of my life will unfold, but that uncertainty doesn’t feel like failure. There’s still time and I’m still young. Some days I feel as young as anything, like that sixteen-year-old girl, only with far more self-assurance under her belt.

I stopped romanticising what drains me, or mistaking inconsistency for excitement. I won’t shrink myself to make others comfortable. If anything, it's made me gentler and firmer all at once. I choose early nights without apology. I choose skincare over hangovers. I choose conversations that feel joyous and I won’t give anyone performative the time of day. I’m enjoying it in a way I truly didn’t expect to.

the friendships that stay (and the ones that don't)

I’ve also learned that not every friendship is meant to travel with you indefinitely, even those you’d had since you were 11. Some were for specific seasons, chaotic summers, shared homes, leaving behind an unwatered dead plant. Letting certain connections fade used to feel like failure. But it’s just true to life. I grew from it as a person and I’m much happier for it. You don’t have to hate people to move forward, just say goodbye and live life how you wish.

My circle is somehow bigger now, but even deeper. They know the texture of my life.

My birthday celebration weekend made me realise just how deeply loved I am. The gifts were lavish and thoughtful, and it was almost overwhelming, not because of what they cost, but how precisely they reflected me as a person and what I love.

To be celebrated so intentionally, by women who truly know you, feels like its own kind of magic.

The biggest shift has been weird. I’ve only been in this age bracket a matter of weeks, but something has recalibrated. I feel like a proper grown up, not like the glamorous Jenna Rink, and not quite as chaotic as Carrie at brunch either, but in the way that I’m thinking long term. I notice how I feel after a night out. I notice what food does to my energy. I care about my sleep. I go on walks because clearing my head feels better than scrolling. I meet friends for proper, filling lunches and actually crave the vegetables. Health feels less like a trend and more like a form of self-respect. It’s seen as preservation now. I’m making choices with future-me in mind.

ten things thirty taught me so far

And because reflection at this age almost demands a list, here’s ten things I have learned:

• Finding your joy is far more important than finding approval

• Removing shame from the things you love will change your life more than chasing trends ever will

• You are allowed to outgrow versions of yourself without feeling disloyal to who you were

• Peace is not boring!

• Not having a rigid timeline does not mean you are behind

• Loving yourself is less about aesthetics

• Being soft can coexist with having strength

• You don’t need to prove your adulthood through exhaustion

• Adult money is best spent on the things that make your inner child light up

• Wanting less often means you have finally understood what matters

If the eighteen-year-old me could see my life now, she might be confused at first. It doesn’t give the cinematic, hyper-productive vibes she imagined. There’s no dramatic reveal or perfectly orchestrated montage. But there is something better, joy in ordinary days, enriched female friendships, and a beautifully curated life I made just for me.

That’s the freedom of turning 30. You stop chasing the life you thought would impress everyone else, and begin building the one that feels like home to you.