There are days when I go out alone. I go for a walk, I look at the sky between buildings, breathing with intention. And I’m surprised that such simplicity can feel so different. As if something inside had quietly shifted into place, without needing explanation.
It’s not euphoria. It’s something else. Maybe a lucid calm.
When I talk to friends about what it’s like to be in my 30s, I usually say it’s like living in a body that no longer wants to impress—just connect. I don’t care about fitting in or proving anything anymore. I’m more interested in being present, in recognizing myself, in having conversations that leave me thinking—not just entertained.
There’s a desire for more silence, more nature, more slowness. It’s not that I want to become a monk (though I wouldn’t entirely rule it out—ha! I just made myself laugh a little). It’s just that noise tires me more quickly than it used to.
I’ve stopped asking “Why is this happening to me?” And I’ve started asking, “What do I need to get through this?”
That question changes everything. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives me back a sense of control. It reminds me that I have resources, people, and spaces. It connects me to a version of myself that doesn’t need to have all the answers—just enough clarity to keep going.
Another thing that’s changed is how I talk about pain. I used to avoid it. Or hide it. Now, I can name it or describe it. Not to dramatize it, but to make it visible. Saying “this still hurts” doesn’t bring me shame anymore. It brings me peace.
And something I hadn’t realized I wasn’t doing: asking for help. Writing to someone to say I’m not okay. That I need a conversation. A favor. A gesture. And discovering—sometimes with surprise—that there’s a response. That someone is listening.
That it’s not weakness. It’s being human.
Not long ago, I told my therapist something I had been feeling for days: everything feels different. I can’t fully explain it. I just know that when I look at the sky, when I breathe, when I walk, there’s a new texture in the air. Being in my own skin feels more intentional. I don’t go through the days dragging myself forward.
I feel present.
I think part of this shift comes from learning to name what I feel. I make the effort to put it into words. Even when I can’t find the exact one, I try.
Phew.
I know the world hasn’t changed. I have. And now, when I look at the world, I see it differently— slower, more open, more mine.
Ave Migratoria 