A Letter to Me On My 30th Birthday

It’s official. Thirty has finally happened to me. Today I’m celebrating at a spa resort with my two favorite people and I can sincerely say that my 30-year-old self is incredibly grateful that I’ve finally recognized that there are few monumental life events that should ever be celebrated with Karkov—or any cheap vodka, really.

The love sent from all of you through birthday cards, texts and phone calls has filled my heart so full and serves as a much-needed reminder that we are so meant to do life together. With that said, cheers to all of you who have played some part in my life over the past thirty years; I’ve needed you all, no matter how minor or brief your part may have seemed.

Last year, a week before my 29th birthday, I wrote this:

I have no idea what’s to come when the clock hits midnight on my 29th birthday or even on my 30th birthday, but I know it will be hard. And tremendous. And unsettling. And overwhelming. And beautiful. I know there will moments of life on top of the world and moments when life seems reduced to two hours crying on a bathroom floor, and I know there will be a lot of moments in between. And I’ll write them all into my story because they all have a place and a purpose. And whatever is on its way to me, I’m very sure of this: the best is yet to come.

And now, on my 30th birthday, I can testify that the past year was hard. and tremendous. and unsettling. and overwhelming. and beautiful. The best did find its way to me over and over again, no matter how many times I was almost convinced that we had somehow parted ways indefinitely. And I’m so very sure that it will keep searching for me and finding me in the middle of routine and sameness, reminding me that still—and always—the best is yet to come.

I’m holding on to that this year, and to center myself when life feels infinitely uphill, I wrote a letter to myself as a reminder that the days are long but the years are short. I was inspired after reading the letter that Bekah Pogue wrote in her book, Choosing Real. Bekah said she wanted to “honor a fresh start” with a birthday letter to herself and I’m decidedly enthusiastic about fresh starts of any kind so I did the same. Because it’s my birthday, and I can, and I’m about two mimosas deep.

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Dear Birthday Girl,

My hopes for you and for the next 10 years of your life have never been higher and never more within your reach than they are in this moment. Today. On this birthday. Throw out your five-year plan and surrender that ten-year plan that you’ve been clinging much too tightly to. The only thing I know for certain is that nothing is for certain and that your best-laid plans are better laid to rest. They lack the spark and imagination that’s essential for a big life and you owe it to yourself to have a big life.

Wherever you go these next ten years, whoever you grow to be in these next ten years, I hope that you can look back on the past 29 years of your life and see the remnants of a journey that was never walked alone. I hope you can see that there was a fiercely loving God who pursued you relentlessly and never hesitated to enter into the messy details, and made something really good out of the broken pieces, the wrong turns and the dead ends. If you can live in this space and love from this space, I think your thirties are going to be nothing less than tremendous. Like I said, I have such high hopes for that little girl up there. 

I hope that…

…you never allow fear to steer your heart back to the shore, to the starting line, to square one or anywhere else that feels safe.

…you wrestle with your faith and ask questions, a lot of questions. Be wildly curious about what you believe, who you love and what you’re afraid of.

…when you see struggle, you don’t look the other way, but that you lean into the discomfort of poverty, addiction, discrimination, and grief, and let it wreck you the way that it needs to.

…when you feel like you don’t belong and you feel lost in the crowd, that you will search for someone else who also feels invisible, and remind them that they’re not. Be an includer and an inviter .

…you hold on to the people who center you and ground you. But leave room for the storytellers, the survivors and the strangers. They’re all meant to walk with you for a few steps. 

…you always do the best you can and that you treat people around you like they’re also doing the best that they can.  

…every once in awhile, you’ll have too many glasses of red wine, order dessert after dinner, and plan a trip that you can’t afford.

…you keep dreaming God-sized dreams about writing books, owning bakeries, and breathing in mountain air.

…you spend Sunday mornings in a church with hands folded or in a kitchen with your hands covered in flour and cookie dough.

…you are brave enough to say “I’m sorry” and strong enough to say “I forgive you” when it’s necessary. And may you know that those two things will always be necessary.

…you take leaps of faith that don’t make sense to anyone else but you. And on the days when you feel like you can’t put one foot in front of the other, I hope you sit down where you are and wait for grace to find you.

…your Saturdays are filled with long mornings in bed, puppy kisses, heaping stacks of pancakes and afternoons spent in coffee shops with heart-flooding conversation.

…you always have the courage to face hard truths—about the world and yourself.

…you cheer for people—whether you know them, you love them, or they’re strangers on the street. We’re all underdogs.

…you celebrate the body you came in. It can do too many remarkable things for you to punish it, complain about it, or wish parts of it away.

…you create space and a margin in your schedule. And when you feel the impulse to push harder and do more, that you lean into stillness and silence instead, and get honest about what you’re trying to run from.

…you live your best life and may you know that living well comes from loving well.

Happy birthday, birthday girl. And remember, calories don’t count on birthdays so eat the cake. 

Love,

Me