This evening, I came home and furiously cleaned my apartment. I vacuumed. I wet-Swiffered. I did loads of laundry…and put it all away. I tackled a heap of dishes. I sorted mail and bills and put things in my very adult, hot-pink accordion file folder.

I wanted to start my thirties fresh and feeling as unencumbered and “together” as possible.

But in my cleaning I came across The Birthday Banner; this had become a thing with me and the ex.  The first birthday we celebrated together was his – I purchased the banner and secretly brought it on a weekend away to hang in the room when he was getting ready for dinner.  And it went up most birthdays from then on.

I debated.

Then I said: “FUCK IT – some years you have to hang your own birthday banner.”

And as I hung this silly collection of foiled-over, cardboard letters while dancing to atrociously wonderful pop music, it struck me that these are precious times. I am not beholden to anyone. I get to write my own story – no real co-authors or ghostwriters. And while my twenties were spent mainly lost, my thirties are starting at a place of exploration.  I’m no longer floundering; I’m just seeking.

I am on a grand adventure.

As the clock struck 12:00 midnight, I stood alone* in my tiny, candlelit apartment with Hozier’s “SOMEONE NEW” blasting from a Spotify playlist, popped open a bottle of pink bubbles, said a prayer, and danced.



Cheers, loves.

(*obviously Fabian was looking on very confusedly from a distance)

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