Thirty feels different

 Thirty feels different.

Not because it suddenly makes life clearer, but because the last year has been one long reminder that growth doesn’t always look clean or pretty—it often looks like chaos disguised as courage.

Turning 30 feels like standing at the shore after a long swim: breathless, shaken, but strangely proud of how far I’ve gone.

This year, I transferred offices, something I once thought I’d do only when truly ready. Then life reminded me that readiness is often a myth, and bravery is the fundamental prerequisite for success. I resigned after seven years in a place that shaped me, challenged me, and, for a long time, defined me. Leaving wasn’t easy; endings rarely are. But stepping into a new job, still under another shade of green, proved that I could rebuild, relearn, and reimagine myself without losing the parts of myself that mattered.

And somewhere between the shifting of desks and the shifting of identities, one of my words found its way into the world. Seeing my article published in Inquirer Young Blood was a quiet, powerful affirmation: that my thoughts matter, that my voice carries weight, and that stories, especially the ones we’re scared to tell, will always find a home. It was a win I celebrated gently yet fully, knowing that my younger self would have been so proud.

Then there’s the thesis.

Ah, the thesis.

My scholarly companion, my longest situationship, my source of stress and stubborn hope. Despite everything happening at once, with transitions, deadlines, and responsibilities, I am still here, writing, revising, reshaping ideas, and fighting for that final chapter of my academic journey. It’s not finished, but neither am I. And maybe that’s the point.

Looking back, my twenties were filled with various roles: professional, academic, creative, and supportive. I coordinated events, guided students, built analyses, wrote frameworks, edited reports, and somehow managed to balance being dependable for others while learning to be kinder to myself. From crafting SPEET analyses to helping shape theses, from coordinating seminars to preparing learning plans—I spent a decade becoming someone steady, thoughtful, and capable.

Thirty is not a finish line.

It’s a continuation—one with clearer eyes and a softer heart.

I carry with me the courage to leave, the pride of being published, the lessons of working with people I respect, the excitement of a new workplace, the exhaustion and persistence of thesis writing, and the growing understanding that I am allowed to reinvent myself at any age.

So here’s to 30.

To becoming, unbecoming, and becoming again.

To green pastures—old and new.

To words that found their way to print.

To chapters still being written.

To dreams that didn’t die even when I was tired.

To the person I was, the person I am, and the one I’m still becoming.

Happy birthday to me—

a little braver, a little wiser, and finally learning that growth, in all its imperfect forms, is worth celebrating.