Britnay P.
I’m staring at a blank page, unsure whether I want to revisit the decade behind me or let myself drift into imagining the one approaching. Maybe both feel equally heavy. Maybe neither feels fully mine yet.
Turning 30 in 2026 is strange, deeply strange. At this age, nothing aligns the way we were told it would. I have friends who are married, friends planning weddings, friends quietly questioning their relationships, and friends refreshing their phones waiting for a text back. I know people making millions of dollars a year, and others struggling to land entry-level work. Friends are purchasing homes, and friends not being able to make their rent this month. The timelines are completely fractured. And somehow, in that chaos, everything starts to make a strange kind of sense.
I thought about this recently while on FaceTime with a long-distance friend. I was asking her for advice about a guy—trying to decode something painfully obvious, might I add. On her end of the screen, she was wrangling her toddler in the home she shares with her husband, casually doing all of this while pregnant with their second child.
The contrast was jarring. Not in a jealous way, not in a regretful way, just in a how-is-this-the-same-age way. Two lives running in parallel, equally valid, wildly different, neither ahead nor behind.
That, I think, is what turning 30 looks like now. No single narrative. No universal milestone. Just a collection of lives unfolding at entirely different speeds, all somehow meeting in the same year.
There’s something quietly surreal about turning 30 in the middle of a full-blown 2016 revival. And honestly? Fair. 2016 was elite. It was fun. Instagram felt playful, crushes felt light, and life didn’t carry the constant weight of urgency it does now. Everything wasn’t a brand, a hustle, or a personality trait yet. Bring back houseparties!!!!
Somewhere along the way, we traded ease for intensity. A scarcity mindset crept in. Choice became overwhelming. Connection became optimized. And somehow, everything started feeling a little too serious, yet so unintentional. I blame Covid for hardwiring a scarcity mindset into an entire generation, but I also blame Raya, Instagram, and TikTok for turning connection into content and giving us way toooooo many opinions. Too many choices, not enough chemistry. Too much self-awareness, not enough whim – people are also insane? But I’ll save that for another day.
Maybe it’s nostalgia talking. Maybe it’s grief for a slower, softer experience. But sometimes I really do miss when a text was just a text, not a performance. When posting wasn’t strategy. When a flip phone was enough. When accessibility to a person was a privilege, and life was lived at face value.
When I was 20, if you’d asked me where I would be when I was 30, I would’ve said homeowner, possibly married (or close to it) – lol. Though to that point, the economy hadn’t yet revealed itself as a practical joke, and people were normal.
Now everything feels expensive and high-stakes. Groceries cost as much as concert tickets used to. Concert tickets cost as much as rent. Rent is a personality trait. Homeownership is a niche fantasy genre, and god forbid people are honest with their intentions and are NORMAL.
Despite sounding like a total anti-30’s grinch, I don’t feel dread about turning 30. I feel curious. I feel steadier. There’s something quietly powerful about entering a decade where you know yourself better than you ever have before. Your 30s aren’t about catching up; they’re about choosing. Choosing people who feel safe instead of impressive. Choosing joy that isn’t performative. Choosing a life that looks good to you.
Maybe we didn’t get the timelines we were promised. Maybe the economy is unhinged, and the apps are broken, and nothing is as simple as it used to be. But there’s a freedom in tha,t too. Less pressure to follow a script, more permission to write something honest.
So I’m romanticizing my 30s. I’m romanticizing slow mornings, deep friendships, late-blooming love, soft confidence, and becoming someone I actually recognize. If my 20s were about proving, my 30s are about living. And that feels like something worth getting excited about.
