Another Year Older

Birthdays used to be fun. They used to mean parties, being spoilt rotten, and the promise of getting older. When you are little, it feels like the world has all these possibilities, that you need to get older to do. It was exciting, it was fun.

Now, in my 30s, that is no longer the case. In fact, my last few birthdays have included time where I have sat on the floor and cried my eyes out. Feeling like I have wasted another year, and that I am never progressing in anything other than age. It always puts a downer on stuff.

I guess a lot of the feelings around birthdays come from others. It is an automatic reaction to look at those around you, and assess how they are doing compared to you. And, well, I have always assumed everyone is much further ahead than me, especially as I’ve got older. Folk are having kids and getting married, and I am not anywhere related to that. Any progress I do make, is slower than a bloody snail. For example, passed my driving test last year, still don’t have a car.

Things are different this year. Though it might not appear so. I am working hard to be better. I am making progress, which is better than none. Babies, moving house, getting a dog, new job, it doesn’t matter what progress is, as long as you move forward, you doing okay. Which is why I am trying to stop comparing my life to others. Yes, most of my friends actually have a career, or a house, or a partner, but they don’t equal anything other than personal growth. And people grow at different speeds.

Or that’s what I am trying to convince myself anyways. Here’s to being 33. Let’s improve on last year.

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