Okay, real talk: who else spent their 20s apologizing for existing? 🙋♀️ Raises hand while tripping over imaginary guilt. I used to say “sorry” more often than I blinked—for taking up space, for having opinions, even for being good at things. Then I turned 30, looked in the mirror, and realized I’d built a personality out of shrink-wrapped self-doubt. Not cute.
Let’s rewind to my 29th birthday meltdown. Picture me sobbing into a vegan cupcake (because of course), convinced my life was an expired coupon. My therapist—bless her—dropped this truth bomb: “You’re not insecure. You’re just fluent in a language nobody taught you.” Mind. Blown. 🤯 That’s when I started treating confidence like a muscle, not magic.
The “Oh Crap, I’m 30” Wake-Up Call
Science time! Did you know our prefrontal cortex finally matures around 30? 🧠 Translation: Your brain’s literally like, “Alright, let’s stop caring what Becky from yoga thinks.” I tested this by doing something terrifying: I wore red lipstick to a PTA meeting (I don’t even have kids). The world didn’t end. Shocking!
Permission to Suck (Seriously)
Here’s where it gets juicy. I took up pottery—not to be good, but to be bad. My first “vase” looked like a deflated basketball, but guess what? Laughing at my lumpy creations rewired my brain. Neuroscientists call this “error-related positivity” (fancy for “failure feels fabulous”). Now I intentionally bomb at new hobbies. Last week’s interpretive dance class? Let’s just say I invented a move called “walrus with vertigo.”
Curating Your Emotional Closet
Marie Kondo your relationships, babes. I dumped the “friends” who treated me like emotional Spotify—only reaching out when they needed a playlist. Pro tip: If someone’s vibe feels like wet socks, let them go. I replaced them with women who high-five my flaws. Our group chat’s called “Hot Mess Express First Class.” 🚂
The Radical Art of Self-Dating
Game-changer alert: I started taking myself to fancy dinners. No book, no phone—just me and a chocolate fondue. First time? Panic-sweat ruined my silk blouse. By the third date, I was flirting with the sommelier. Turns out, being your own soulmate isn’t sad—it’s sexy AF.
Your New Mantra: “I’m Not Responsible for Your Discomfort”
Repeat after me: My boundaries aren’t rude—they’re renewable energy. I learned this after my mom criticized my child-free life. Instead of folding like a lawn chair, I said, “I’m not arguing my existence.” Cue record scratch. Now she brags about my “European lifestyle” to her bridge club. Progress!
The “Fck It” List
Inspired by Shonda Rhimes’ “Year of Yes,” I made a “Fck It” list:
1. Say no to unpaid emotional labor
2. Wear the sequin jumpsuit to CVS
3. Laugh loudly in silent yoga
Every checkmark feels like slapping high-fives with my younger self.
Final Confession: I still have Imposter Syndrome showers (“Do I deserve this rosemary mint body wash?!”). But now I answer back: “Babe, you are the syrup on the pancake.” 🥞💅