The last day of this last month I celebrated turning thirty, my scary age. The strange thing is as it was creeping up I didn’t give much thought to it, so there’s the additional shock value. Every once in a while my looming doom would pop into my head, but, perhaps, it was because I was trying to forget the fact that I didn’t dwell on it. But now that I actually am thirty, I have no other choice but to think about it. (I’m hoping that after a few months that the anxiety of being thirty will, indeed, revert back into the oblivion of the back of my mind and choose to stay there until its reincarnation at the turn of the next scary decade. I’ve heard that when you’re forty, this is supposedly the time when you have a firm grasp of your passions and really know what you’re doing. Here’s to hoping that the scariness dies down instead of the typical ramping up tenfold.)

It’s amazing how the unfulfilled expectations, the mistakes, the regrets, the missed opportunities that I long overlooked or thought I resolved are able to resolutely come racing back without hesitation with a single number, a single day. I never thought I was the type of person who held certain expectations of what her life would look like at thirty, but, apparently, I am just such a person. What’s more surprising is I fall smack dab in the middle of all the stereotypes of believing that at thirty, I pictured having a successful career, a baby in my arms, and a beautiful home I could call my own. I can hardly believe that this is what I pictured for myself, but there it is.

Four years ago, I would’ve thought myself silly for thinking such things. But, then again, my life looked very different four years ago. I was in East Asia teaching English, accomplishing meaningful work, though in many people’s eyes maybe not the most successful. I felt assured that whatever else God had in mind for me, would unfold naturally. And I’d be okay with it. Since then, the life that unfolded wasn’t what I imagined and seeing the lives my friends are leading; it’s felt more difficult to believe the sacrifices I’ve made are worthwhile because I don’t have the successful career, the baby in my arms, and a beautiful home I can call my own. Honestly, I feel fine about the home and maybe the baby, since I don’t even really know if I am ready to be a mother yet. The hardest thing, for me, in being thirty is to suffer the loss of a failing career. When I left the country immediately after graduating from college, I fully acknowledged the fact that my career could be at a loss. I don’t think I ever knew how much of a loss it would be or that I would experience this loss on a regular basis after that day. My husband tells me I have plenty of skills and abilities that companies are looking for, that if I wanted it the success I want in a career is possible if I wanted to try. I sort of believe him. For the time being, though, with the rejection and strength I’ve had to muster to overcome cynics in the non-profit world I feel tired and worn down by rejection. How can I face more right now?

Who knew that a number could be such a test of faith? Despite some of the heartbreak that comes with turning thirty, I still believe that God is good. Though, I may not have the life my friends envy, more so the other way around, I still have to believe that God is good. And hopefully, I can sometime soon look back with different eyes and see it with those twenty-six-year-old- like-eyes and say with confidence that having life unfold naturally is good. It’s better than I thought it could be.