I’ve graduated college. I’ve begun my Master’s. I’ve traveled to Barcelona, Cannes, Florence, Rome, Venice, Corfu, Dubrovnik, Palermo, and London. I’ve performed on the stage at the Globe Theater and run Bay to Breakers. I professed my love for a man in front of over 100 people and I endured 22 hours of labor (19 of which were drug free). I run a successful high school publication and lead a team of five English teachers. I am involved in the high school reform movement at the school where I teach. Occasionally, I make dinner for my family, and almost every night I put my daughter to bed. And I’m 29. For four more days. I’m completely freaking out.
Ten years ago, I had one of those “What I’m going to do by the time I’m thirty” lists. On my list: travel to Europe (check). Buy a home (check–twice). Get married (check). Have a baby (check). Even though I’ve added items to the list–some that have been checked off and some that haven’t–I was sure that once I reached thirty and completed most of my list, I’d have a really good sense of who I was. I was mostly right. Until a few months ago when the dreaded milestone birthday began to loom closer.
Suddenly, in my mind, I shifted from the over-achieving, exciting 20-something to the…I don’t know. Thirty-something. Didn’t they used to have a show in the eighties about us?
I’ve realized that I don’t have a clue about who I am anymore. And I’m completely freaking out.