Last Days of our Twenties | 1 DAY TO GO | Shifting Bricks

Tomorrow I am turning 30, officially making today the last day of my twenties. I’ve been writing publicly for the last month about the queer feelings floating around this particular B-Day, which has eliminated my previously unacknowledged anxiety over entering my thirties, as my mind has already processed it. Amazing. However, there’s still one point of worry hanging over my head — what’s the plan for the next 10 years?!

Exactly one month ago I started to write about the final days I was spending in my twenties, in an attempt to traverse the unsettling fear, emotions and hang-ups I was associating with my impending birthday. Now — almost 31 days later — I not only feel more at ease with what lies behind me, but excited for the great unknown that lies ahead. Still, there’s some niggles though.

Which way is up?

In the first post from ‘Last Days of my Twenties’, I asked a few big questions. Time to check them out:

What have my twenties actually taught me?

The importance of family to your wellbeing. An unfathomable amount of insight on human behaviour — both noble and nasty. How to trust your gut. How to communicate with purpose. Also a big lesson has been the shocking realisation that we are all still children playing one big game where we pretend to be adult characters with jobs, responsibilites and shite, upholding laws and creating babies and acting like we know what we’re actually doing and what’s right and wrong, while secretly freaking out inside that we’re just a kid really and wondering when is our next playtime…

Was it a good decade or a shit one?

I would say mostly a good one for me. The shit bits give balance and perspective.

Have I grown or devolved?

I have grown mentally but my spirit feels devolved. A lot of soul-flattening experiences and realisations occurred in this last decade that I am still picking my spirit up from and showing it the bright side. I haven’t grown in height or width thought in this last decade, now that’s a win.

Am I more mature or more saggy?

Obviously more mature, in an aged wine/increased value kind of way. My world view has widened and my outlook is less playful, more hardened. I don’t like this and know I need to reintroduce playtime (for that inner kid). I struggle to imagine someone conquering their twenties and not hardening to life’s lessons. And my saggyness ratio? Well, gravity hasn’t hit me just yet so I may have that confused that with a later decade down the track… I’ll just keep running away from it, literally.


As I finish up this last day of what I consider to be my “youth”, I will be ruminating about what comes next. What do I want my thirties to be about? I am ready for my next adventure beyond the comfortable home office in the UK.

Subconsciously, I have started to collect the bricks to build a positive, productive life in my thirties, rather than testing everything out and curiously fumbling my way through, like I have done in my twenties. I am shifting from a decade of uncertainty and excitement to a decade of focus and wellbeing. I have never been closer to knowing what I love, hate and need in my life, which are all essential to designing the sort of life I want to live.

After blowing out those candles tomorrow, all I need to do is start the rewarding process of finding what truly fuels me and placing it at the core of my every day… hmmm.

To achieve this, I’ve been keeping a journal — not a touchy-feely gratitude journal, but textual vomit poured from my mind onto paper early in the mornings or at times of major confusion. And I think I’m onto something, according to Sylvia Plath anyway, who said a diary builds a bridge between our present and future selves:

In spite of some tremors I think I shall go on with this diary for the present. I sometimes think that I have worked through the layer of style which suited it — suited the comfortable bright hour, after tea; and the thing I’ve reached now is less pliable. Never mind; I fancy old Virginia, putting on her spectacles to read of March 1920 will decidedly wish me to continue. Greetings! my dear ghost; and take heed that I don’t think 50 a very great age. Several good books can be written still; and here’s the bricks for a fine one.

It’s all about the BRICKS. Whether I’m shitting them or collecting them (both, really) the best way to push forward from twenty-nine into dirty thirty is consciously focusing my thoughts and goals with regular writing and outdoor exercise to make sense of things. From that abstract mess, I can hopefully pluck out the shiny bits to create something lasting.

To conclude this chaotic series of posts from my heart and soul in panic-mode, I’d like to thank you for reading! I’d also like to make it very, very clear that I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. Not even with these posts. So on that note, if any inkling of what I’ve written resonated with you please connect with me directly. I would love a reason to feel slightly less crazy!