Being 30

I turned 30.

It felt sad. Lonely. And not life changing. It didn’t feel like a transition had happened. I didn’t feel the euphoria of saying bye to my 20s.

I turned 30.

It felt shameful. I wondered how awful I must be that a man left me to raise a child, alone, from when I was 19 to 30. This, turning 30, felt even worse than turning 20. I finally attached the grief which had been gnawing from my last day of 29 to abandonment. I made this connection when Rheen, the one friend who always tells me, “I am proud of you” said it after seeing my son’s photo.

I turned 30.

It felt blank. I remembered a mutual friend asking when I was 29, “Even now when you’re grown, that guy doesn’t care for his child?” I said no, and added that I don’t even think about it. He made his choice and is living it. But the truth is I think about it then convince myself that I should shut the door to those thoughts. I think a lot about how my child was robbed of a relationship. I think a lot about how I am robbed when I can’t choose not to pay fees, or not to buy clothes or not to care because if I stop then who will. I think about how I could use a break especially when my times and finances are tough and how I am robbed of the spontaneity of choice because I must prioritise some things over others. And it’s how life works, but it is robbery when one person decides to never be a parent.

I turned 30.

It felt heavy. That I have been carrying the shame of being a present parent. That I weigh my choices when I want to get a luxury item to make myself feel good with the needs of my child. I have fantasized about the next 10 years of my child’s life, and my own. I’m burdened by the thought of how our lives would turn out if I took an active break from providence for the next decade. I have already carried 10. Laugh Out Loud! But that’s not a possibility for the parent that stayed.

I turned 30.

I felt seen. By my son, who gave me a cute, little jewellery box, decorated with white masking tape from remnants of the box he used to make a shield for his school project. The box with masking tape mimicking ribbons had a beautiful pair of gold earrings; almost the same as the ones he gifted me on my last birthday, only that they were silver. They were my favourite earrings before they got lost somewhere between my pockets or ears in Italy and Nairobi. I remember wearing them and seeing them in Italy last. Surely, I must go back there to find them. He asked me if any of my friends had already wished me a happy birthday. I said, no, only mom and my sister had.

I turned 30.

I felt seen. By my birthday mate, Ivy, who remembers that we share a date and insists that it is always a joy to. I agree and I am grateful for her. She honours me in ways that I desire on our day and when a bouquet came in for me, with 30 pink roses, I knew it was from her before opening the card. I confirmed as much when I read it. Ivy sent me the best regret email I have ever received, in 2017, and attached a CV format I could use, and that I used for a few years when job hunting. I remembered her name then. She asked me not to lose hope in trying out. That’s all I’ve been doing lately, not losing hope.

I turned 30.

I opened the card I’d written to myself on 1st January, 2024 with instructions to open when I turn 30. Reading it felt like I had come home to myself. Maybe this is what 30 is all about. Blossoming inwards. I achieved the three things I wished for myself then. Okay, I still have two months to go to close on the one (un)realistic goal. And the stuff I wrote about still applies to my life. Like the wanting certainty and how this cripples me. I am glad though that the predictability of my life stopped four months ago and I’ve been living.

I turned 30.

It feels like a new day. It is. It is 3:00 am.

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