In my early twenties, I had a very clear picture of my 30s.
She was a CEO. Corner office, or close to it. The kind of woman who cooked fancy meals on weekends, you know the ones with asparagus and brussel sprouts? And checked her portfolio with the calm energy of someone who had it handled.
She was, in the truest sense of the word, together.
She also, occasionally, had access to a yacht. Details weren’t important.
Last Tuesday I spent eleven minutes on that yacht daydream — the light, the water, the version of me in a linen outfit looking unbothered, and then remembered I hadn’t taken my folic acid in six days.
The spiral goes fast.
Six days. Six days. Which means my iron levels are suffering. Which means I should also check my Vitamin D, everyone in India is deficient and I never got that test done. I should book that test. I should also be taking Omega 3. Do I have Omega 3? I bought Omega 3. Where is it.
I’m still trying.
I bought one of those weekly pill organisers recently. It felt very adult.
I’ve filled it twice.
Maybe this is just what the 30s actually are.
Not the yacht. Not the chaos either.
Just someone who dreams big, forgets small things, and is doing her best with both.
Is there a version of yourself you thought you’d be by now, that still makes you smile a little?
