Today I turn 30.
And, somewhat disappointingly, nobody has handed me the instruction manual.
No envelope arrived this morning containing the answers to adulthood. No mysterious old man appeared at my door carrying a scroll entitled The Things You Should Have Figured Out By Now.
I checked.
Nothing.
So here I am.
Thirty.
It is a strange number, isn't it?
Somehow, when I was younger, thirty seemed ancient. Thirty was an age inhabited by people who owned houses, understood mortgages, drank sensible amounts of wine, had successful careers, knew exactly what they wanted, and probably went to bed before midnight.
I assumed thirty meant having it all together.
Now that I have arrived, I have some disappointing news.
I don't have it all together.
Not even close.
And perhaps that's the first confession worth making.
Apparently, I Was Supposed to Have Figured It Out
There is an odd mythology surrounding thirty.
By thirty, you're supposed to know who you are.
You should know what career you want, where you want to live, who you want to spend your life with, how much money you should have saved, what your five-year plan is, and preferably where you're going for dinner on Friday.
The world loves a timeline.
School.
University.
Career.
Marriage.
House.
Children.
Retirement.
Death.
Apparently we're all meant to move obediently from one square to the next, like pieces upon some enormous board whose rules nobody thought to explain.
But life, inconveniently, refuses to behave.
For man may draw his map with careful hand, yet Fortune laugheth softly at the compass; the road bends where no road was drawn, and the traveller is oft carried unto shores he never sought.
I have spent much of my life believing that eventually I would arrive at some grand moment of certainty.
That one day everything would click.
I'd wake up and suddenly understand what I was doing here.
I suspect I'm still waiting.
The Truth Is, I Don't Have It All Together
I have achieved things I'm proud of.
I've also made decisions that, with the magnificent clarity afforded by hindsight, I would perhaps make rather differently.
I've worked hard.
I've procrastinated.
I've been ambitious.
I've been lazy.
I've been certain.
I've been completely wrong.
I've met extraordinary people and lost touch with others I thought would remain forever.
I've taken risks.
I've avoided risks.
I've said things I wish I hadn't.
I've left things unsaid that I wish I had.
In short, I've done what most people do.
I've lived.
And perhaps that is the uncomfortable beauty of reaching thirty.
You begin to realise that your life isn't a polished story.
It's a manuscript covered in crossings-out.
Some chapters are beautiful.
Some are embarrassing.
Some you don't understand yet.
And some you would rather burn.
Yet what is a life, if not this curious manuscript of triumph and error? The ink of youth dries swiftly, and only with the passing years do we discern which sentences were wisdom and which were merely the exuberance of fools.
I was a fool.
I'm sure I still am.
But perhaps I'm becoming a slightly more informed fool.
What Happened to the Person I Thought I'd Become?
When I was younger, I had an image of myself at thirty.
I thought I'd know more.
I thought I'd be calmer.
I thought I'd be more successful.
I thought I'd have answered many of the questions that occupy me now.
It's funny.
The opposite seems to have happened.
The older I get, the more questions I have.
At twenty, I thought intelligence meant having answers.
At thirty, I'm beginning to suspect it means knowing which questions are worth asking.
There is humility in that.
Or perhaps simply exhaustion.
I'm not sure.
The person I imagined becoming was polished and certain.
The person I actually became is considerably more complicated.
He has doubts.
He changes his mind.
He gets things wrong.
He still occasionally wonders what he's going to do with his life.
And, strangely enough, I think I prefer him.
The Strange Mathematics of Time
Thirty years sounds like a long time.
Until you look backwards.
Then it feels absurdly short.
The first twenty years seemed endless. The next ten disappeared with almost indecent speed.
There is something terrifying about realising that time does not slow down merely because you have finally begun to appreciate it.
Time is the most merciless of sovereigns. It asketh neither permission nor consent; it simply passeth, carrying childhood, youth, ambition and memory in its silent procession.
We speak about time as though it were something we possess.
My time.
Your time.
I'll have time later.
But perhaps time is the one thing we never truly own.
We merely borrow it.
And eventually, inevitably, the debt comes due.
That thought should probably make me more anxious than it does.
Instead, it makes me grateful.
For the people.
For the mistakes.
For the places.
For the mornings I didn't appreciate enough.
For the nights I thought would never end.
For every strange detour that somehow became part of the road.
My First Confession: I Have Regrets
Of course I do.
Thirty years would be a remarkably short life if there were nothing to regret.
Some regrets are obvious.
Things I said.
Things I did.
People I hurt.
Opportunities I ignored.
Risks I didn't take.
Time I wasted.
Then there are the quieter regrets.
The phone calls never made.
The friendships allowed to fade.
The moments I was physically present but mentally somewhere else.
The times I chose comfort over courage.
The years I spent worrying about what people thought of me when, in retrospect, they were probably far too busy worrying about themselves.
And then there are the strangest regrets of all:
the things that never happened.
The roads not taken.
The words never spoken.
The person I might have become had I chosen differently.
Regret is a peculiar ghost. It haunteth not the house of yesterday, but the imagination of what yesterday might have been.
Perhaps that's why it can be so powerful.
We don't merely mourn the past.
We mourn its possibilities.
Thirty Regrets
So, naturally, I have decided to do something slightly ridiculous.
I'm going to write them down.
Thirty regrets for thirty years.
Not because I think regret is something we should wallow in.
Quite the opposite.
I want to examine it.
Some will be serious.
Some will be painfully embarrassing.
Some will make me laugh.
Some may make me wince.
There may even be a few that I am not entirely sure I should publish.
But that's rather the point.
A life without honesty becomes mythology.
And I'm not particularly interested in writing mythology.
I want to write about what actually happened.
The mistakes.
The missed opportunities.
The bad decisions.
The lessons that arrived far too late.
The things I wish someone had told me.
And perhaps, most importantly, the things I should have listened to when someone did.
Thirty Is Not the Beginning of the End
There is a tendency to treat thirty like a deadline.
As though youth has an expiry date.
As though some invisible clock strikes midnight and suddenly you're late.
Late for success.
Late for love.
Late for adventure.
Late for becoming the person you were supposed to be.
I don't believe that anymore.
Thirty isn't a deadline.
It's a doorway.
The bell hath rung, yet the play is far from ended. The curtain rises anew, and though the actor entereth the stage with scars upon his heart and dust upon his shoes, he entereth nonetheless.
There is still time.
Not infinite time.
That's important.
But enough.
Enough to begin again.
Enough to change direction.
Enough to become someone you didn't know you could be.
Enough to make mistakes of an entirely new variety.
And perhaps that's the most exciting part.
So, What Now?
I don't have a grand answer.
I don't have a ten-step plan for conquering my thirties.
I don't know exactly where I'll be at forty.
I don't know what I'll build, who I'll meet, where I'll live, or what I'll believe.
And for once, I'm strangely comfortable with that uncertainty.
Maybe growing older isn't about becoming increasingly certain.
Maybe it is about becoming increasingly comfortable with uncertainty.
Maybe wisdom isn't knowing the destination.
Maybe it's learning to walk beautifully despite not knowing the road.
So today, I turn thirty.
I have some achievements.
I have some failures.
I have some stories I'm proud of.
Others I'd happily bury beneath the floorboards.
I have more questions than answers.
More ambition than certainty.
More memories behind me than ever before.
And, God willing, considerably more ahead.
Thirty years have passed beneath the turning heavens, and yet I feel not at the end of youth, but at the beginning of understanding. The boy I was still walks somewhere behind me; the man I shall become waits somewhere beyond the horizon. Between them stands this imperfect, bewildered, hopeful creature—me.
I suppose that's enough.
For now.
Stay Tuned
There are thirty regrets.
Some I remember perfectly.
Some I've tried very hard to forget.
Some I don't yet know were regrets at all.
And perhaps a few will surprise even me.
So stay tuned.
Thirty years.
Thirty regrets.
One rather unfinished man.
This is thirty.
And, truth be told, I'm only just getting started.
Frequently Asked Questions
Is it normal not to have your life figured out at 30?
Absolutely. Turning 30 does not mean that you should have every part of your life figured out. Careers change, relationships evolve, priorities shift, and many people continue discovering who they are throughout their thirties and beyond.
What does turning 30 feel like?
It can feel like a strange mixture of reflection, excitement, uncertainty and gratitude. For many people, turning 30 becomes an opportunity to reconsider the expectations they had for themselves and compare them with the life they actually have.
What are common regrets people have at 30?
Common regrets can include not taking enough risks, neglecting relationships, worrying too much about other people's opinions, postponing meaningful experiences, staying in situations that were no longer right, and failing to appreciate certain periods of life while they were happening.
Why do people reflect so much when they turn 30?
Thirty is often treated as a psychological milestone. It can encourage people to look backwards at their twenties while simultaneously thinking about the kind of person they want to become during the next decade.
Is 30 really a major milestone?
It can be, but there is no universal experience of turning 30. For some, it feels significant; for others, it is simply another birthday. Its meaning largely comes from the expectations we attach to the number.
What are the 30 regrets in this series?
The full list has yet to be revealed. Thirty regrets will be explored across the series, ranging from serious mistakes and missed opportunities to smaller moments that only became meaningful with the benefit of hindsight.