Getting Younger, Turning 30

Definitively NOT an anti-aging guide

The Blog-sphere (Substack especially) is Flooded with Cool 23 Year Olds

At least that’s what it seems like. The Algorithmic Gods have shone a bright light upon my feed, bestowing upon me the presence of wise and vibrant 23 year olds, such that I may have access to the Good Word.

These authors write with nuance, they have ironclad boundaries and points of view. They ‘see the forrest for the trees’ or whatever the fuck that saying is. Despite the recent influx of Girlhood-Essay hate, most of them continue to write of their lived experience. Brief musings on growing up, lengthy essays that both grip us as readers and act as a ledger, documenting the process of reconciling their own feelings on a topic with an audience watching in real-time.

I’m not sure I ever had that. 😗😬

Between 22-24, I doubt I had the clarity or courage to even attempt articulating whatever feelings raged through me at the time. Nor the confidence to speak about them with any authority or conviction.

You’re Supposed to be Kind to Your Younger Self

after all, they were “trying their best.” To be honest, I’ve had a hard time doing that. To be even more honest, I’m a little mad at 23 year old me. She wasted her own time being stuffy and stubborn. You could not pay me to be 23/24 again.

Back then, I was mimicking what I thought an adult looked like, sounded like, dressed like. All the things they were supposed to do. I was not fun at 23.

I was scared and tight-lipped frozen by all the things I “needed” to do or have— deprioritizing all the things I wanted. I needed money. I needed a job. I needed an apartment. I needed to furnish that apartment not like a college student, but like an adult. Unfortunately that came to life has mid-century boho in Millennial griege.

I was scared to try anything. I reprimanded my friends for doing coke in the bathroom, despite wanting to do coke in the bathroom.

Too exhausted to stay out past midnight and too self-conscious to even consider doing anything deemed 'sloppy' or 'immature'—let alone actually doing it.

I Willed Myself Older and I Became It

I don’t think I’ll ever question the power of subconscious manifestation because I wanted to be seen as older, and my God did I start to look it.

Really no poetic way to describe it, I dressed old. I relied on a closet full of Madewell boxy-tops to visually support me as the very mature, very responsible, adult Anna. I had an accompanying (fried) blonde lob that my grandma would call both “sassy and smart.”

I don’t know who that person was.

And I really mean that. As I approach 30 and do the inevitable misty-retrospective that comes with the passage of time, I find this era of my life strange in that it was so different than who I am today. But more bizarrely, so different than who I was as a teenager.

Between the ages of 14 and 20—peak years of 'Who am I?' 'My identity is literally being shaped right now,' and 'I’m always 30 seconds away from tears' I still had a pretty strong sense of self. The way I looked, dressed, behaved was all …pretty much me? I’d poll my high school classmates, but I’m too scared. (Hi Suzy / Jill / Zach)

When I started college, more than one person told me I reminded them of a fictional character (???) Despite that quiet dig-as-compliment, I still took naive pride in being “weird.” (Not lost on me that this reeks of ‘not like other girls’ 🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮)

Whatever dose of both fast-acting, extended release insecurity was given to me after this rounded off my edges for a long time. I’d define that period as time spent trying to become smaller— my body, my personality, who I was on a daily basis. Those are the only years (22-24) where I haven’t been eccentric, my personal dark ages. A time lost to history.

At 25, I Got Younger

To my genuine surprise, the whole “your prefrontal cortex develops at 25” thing is not useless lore. When I turned 25, I felt a click. In fact, I might have actually heard it.

It was kind of like getting cold water sprayed in your face and every drop is asking why you’re dressing and behaving like a soon-to-retire mother of three. I ditched my Madewell wardrobe and sent it back to the semi-conservative, Christian-coded, Millennial closet where it belonged. (Sorry for hating so hard on Madewell, they admittedly have cute pieces but not for me! Please don’t yell at me ☹️)

I ditched my fried lob to grow out my naturally curly hair, an action detrimental to my self-confidence at the time but crucial to my overall sense of self. I cared less about how palatable I was en masse and what I was supposed to be doing. I was ready to be silly goofy and I invited stupidity with open arms. By the time I was 27, I didn’t just feel younger, I felt better. I felt cooler.

If this is how aging continues to go for me, maybe God is a woman and maybe She’s on my side, lol.

I don’t at all feel how 30 was described to me at 13… 18… 23…29. Maybe I will come January 13th 2025, but I doubt it. Sometimes I worry I should be in fluorescent suburbia— married, and ideally happy. Maybe there’s a world where I’m making genuinely fun and engaging mommy-content that flies in the face of sad, beige baby aesthetics. There are worse ways to usher in a new decade.

But last month I was trying Zyn for the first (and last) time, freaking out and cry-laughing at the fact that I looked “kind of pretty” in a photo my friend took of me, violently ill, hunched over the toilet. I posted it for all to see. Stupidity, open arms, etc etc etc.

My 29 year old wisdom has kicked in enough to not show you that photo.

These are extreme ends of the spectrum, hyperbolic not corollaries, not either/or options. 24 year old me probably would not have found the above funny, but I wish she would’ve. Not to “get it out of her system” but because by this point, she would’ve had more fun for a lot longer.

Self-indulgence check!