Yesterday, whilst sitting in a meeting I cared nothing about, I was lost in thought and realized … I’ll be 31 years old in just a few days.

12 days.

I don’t know what it is about this year that I have found so liberating, but I am loving being “in my thirties.” I feel like I’ve learned more this year that in any other year of my adult life. I’ve given myself permission to mess up, to make things right, to be myself without apologies and to live with a frankness that I wish I’d discovered a little sooner. 

This year has brought me intense stress, overwhelming sadness, then joy; and finally blessings beyond belief. My husband and I held on to the hope that things would work out when life got difficult — and they did. They always do.

I have started a mental list of things I want to accomplish in my 31st year and I hope that I can achieve at least a few of them. If I don’t, oh well. I’m over putting *unrealistic expectations on myself.  

*Like getting myself back into the jeans I’m wearing in the picture below. That’s not going to happen any time soon. I accept that. Maybe in my 32nd year?

Me and a bowling ball on my 30th birthday.