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Turning 33

On Monday it was my 33rd birthday. Of course any major date in the calender elicits a certain amount of reflection; particularly if you are an introspective type like me who often gazes at markers in the sand and imagines where they thought they might be at that time.

I mean, if there's one thing you learn in your 20s (or 30s, for those who dig their heels in and resist it - yes, me again), it's that life very rarely goes to plan. But the life that does arrive usually just has a way of working out, of sometimes even being a better fit. This takes time - to fit, to wear it long enough to grow accustomed to it. Right now I am at that stage where I'm still folding up the sleeves, tilting my head in the mirror and slowly but surely, making it my own.


I am learning to shed expectations - from others, from society, and most difficult of all - from myself. Society taught me that 33-year-olds have crisply ironed white shirts, own three-bedroom houses with a subway-tiled kitchen and original fireplace and have two or three angelic little children toddling around them and a rugged, bearded husband who can chop wood and soothe the children with equal aplomb. I do not have any of this, and worse - I could have done and I walked away. (Not just for me, but for both of us).

But life is not a recipe where subway tiles + swarthy husband + seaside semi-detached = happiness. And thank god for that, as it means that happiness can be cultivated by the many, not just the few who are lucky enough to have those in their life (though God knows instagram doesn't always make it feel like that). In previous years I've worked so hard to try and find happiness, in new houses, in new hobbies, in Lush bath bombs and cosy blankets - feeling like it was an unachievable quest, like pushing a huge rock uphill only to watch it roll back down again. Everything always felt heavy, and difficult and I would wake with this feeling of a huge, hard stone in my stomach and a dark cloud over my head.

I'm not looking back to that time any more, it was another life, another time. And in the last few weeks I've noticed a feeling of lightness, of ease. I'm no longer weighed down, I feel content, and calm. In April I was diagnosed with 'home related stress' and placed on anti-depressants (Citalopram) which I think have helped. When I look back now, it was stress I was suffering from and probably had been for some time - not sleeping, feeling exhausted all the time, constantly worrying and feeling anxious and on edge, being ratty and over-sensitive and over-thinking and over-analysing everything.

This weekend in particular I just woke with a big smile on my face. I'm now living in a beautiful light, airy house with all my books, crystals, millions of clothes and my comfy sofa. I live in a cool city with yoga classes, vegan cafes, a lovely beach and parks in which to walk Bodhi dog. I have people in my life making me happy, a job I enjoy and time for blogging and tackling my to-read pile. I've been on a journey of self-discovery and dabbled in aromatherapy, shamanism, tarot, astrology, crystals and law of attraction. But I learned that life is not about the ingredients, and none of this matters, really. What matters is giving myself the grace and kindness to grow and make mistakes, to let emotions come and go as they please and to know that whatever happens, I am enough.

So I guess, on my 33rd birthday I didn't wake up in a house I owned, with a baby cooing from a nearby bedroom, with a high-flying career under my belt and a bulging savings account but what I did wake up with was a sense of contentment, of ease, of love and light. And that matters more.

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