A Birthday Reflection on a Decade of Living
Tomorrow I’m 35 and it seemed as good of time as any to post again. In 2020 I felt the need to write more often but I haven’t as much since then. 2020 and 2021 were weird years: cooped up, reading, writing, cooking, and walking hours upon hours through my pretty, quiet neighborhood. The last few years of Covid, which have ultimately felt like an odd extension of my lupus diagnosis and my work in therapy, have been transformative for me. I’m not sure what it is about a round number, but 35 feels like as good of time as any to reflect back on the past decade and feel proud of the growth found there.
In 2013, I was 25 and finishing up my last year of coursework in Syracuse. I had just moved in with Joe and I felt very grown up and full of dreams of academia. I was on campus until 10pm several nights a week. I worked through the weekends. I ran miles a day and I felt important and on the cusp of something great.
In 2014, I was 26 and adapting to living in a city without Joe. I was beginning to work on my dissertation and driving back and forth to Pittsburgh often. I was feeling secure in my friend group and starting to take weekends off to have fun and explore.
In 2015, I was 27 and, after a summer of writing and running in Oakland, I was diagnosed with lupus and my body was betraying me, I was in pain and my hair was falling out. I was empty and slowly dying back in Syracuse and then, all of a sudden, I was a surge of steroid-fueled energy and working to stay alive.
In 2016, I was 28 and settling into life in Oakland, where I’d moved to be with Joe. I was finishing up my dissertation and planning our wedding. I was writing daily, feeling trapped by the PhD and eager to start my “real life.” Still on a hefty dose of steroids, I was convinced I was back to normal. My hair had started to grow back, I defended my dissertation, we got married, and all of our friends and family flew out to celebrate. We got Frankie. I felt like I was finally alive again.
In 2017, I was 29 and working gig jobs. Feeling bored of and limited by academia, I suddenly stopped applying to tenure track jobs and spent more of my time doing things that actually paid me for my labor.
In 2018, I was 30 and jumping feet first into my first 9–5 job. Falling into the same habits formed in academia, I set poor boundaries and overworked, eager to prove myself. Tapered off my drugs, confronted by strong Oakland sun, and stressed at work, lupus symptoms began to creep in. I started to obsessively monitor my stress levels and sun and germ exposure. I felt the intense pressure of being responsible for keeping myself alive. I began to have panic attacks.
In 2019, I was 31 and, trying to reset after a hard few years, we acted on impulse and moved to Portland. Without the harsh Oakland sun beating down on me, I explored the great world of the Pacific Northwest. Gone were the days of daily runs, replaced by hours and hours of hiking to favorite podcasts and Spotify. Low impact meditative movement began to still me.
In 2020, I was 32 and we were a few months into the pandemic. Work had exploded and I was working worse hours than I had ever worked in academia. But, the whole world had slowed down. When not sprinting at work, I was in nature, I was reading, I was resting. There were zero social obligations and, all of a sudden, I could be exactly who I wanted to be. I started therapy.
In 2021, I was 33 and feeling very secure in my worth and value. I began to set better boundaries. We bought a new house on a big plot of land and, every day, I was able to breathe in the beauty and stillness of nature. We got Maxi.
In 2022, I was 34 and the world began to feel expansive and full of possibility. No longer was I feeling the need to strip away all other obligations in order to feel free to be myself. I began growing my local friend group. I let Joe encourage me out of my comfort zone and we went to Tokyo. I worked reasonable hours and (mostly) found peace at work.
And in 2023, I am now 35, having grown so much in the last decade and grateful that, even though my reality does not look like the dreams I had at 25, it suits me. Now, life looks like my dogs, nature, time for myself, and relationships. It looks like doing well at work but not letting a career define my worth. It looks like learning to love a body that survived.
To those I love, thanks for loving me at all the stages, for keeping me alive, and for helping make it a life worth living. Here’s to 35.
