I turn 33 today.
It’s also been a long time since I’ve written on here. October 2025, to be exact.
In the middle of work, writing a book, moving house, degrees and promotions, my husband and I welcomed the arrival of our second daughter just over 10 months ago. Her birth has brought all the wild beauty of figuring out life again now that there is someone new (and irresistibly cuddly and dainty) in the picture.
In between the diaper changes, feeding on demand, unlimited snuggles and butterfly kisses, a new energy fills our home. One that doesn’t care for work schedules, bills and deadlines. One that forces you to pause. To just be. Her arrival has reignited the child-like parts of me. Where it’s okay to dance like nobody’s watching. Where we can make funny faces in public, and goofy giggle in the middle of mayhem.
I write this at 4h30 in the morning, with her snuggled between us, and am full of gratitude for waking up on my birthday with her in our home.
The last time I marked a birthday of duplicate digits was when I was 22 – a decade ago. I was young, naive and full of reckless hope. My thirties so far have been defined by motherhood. It’s been the season of building a family with my husband, but I’ve experienced both ends of the spectrum of motherhood in the span of three years: sorrow and joy. Death and life. I grieve and miss my first daughter while celebrating and raising my second daughter. It’s the version of motherhood nobody chooses, but one you can’t separate from no matter how much time passes. It changes you even if you fight hard for it not to, because all your children inevitably change you in their own unique ways.
While my twenties were full of endless possibilities and decisions about the kind of life I’d want, my thirties set me on fire. It tore me apart, plunged me off a cliff, and taught me how to pull myself out from the river below.
I’ve had to learn to survive. To keep running, because if I stopped, I’d cave. I’ve had to find the wisdom I imagined I’d only look for in my fifties or sixties. Life got real so fast. And deep. And ruthless. But it also got richer. And fuller. And more meaningful. At 33, my version of motherhood leaves me with questions I wouldn’t have normally. Can I stop running now? What kind of woman do I want to be, given everything I’ve seen and everything I still learn every day?
“Life” has become a verb rather than just a noun. I see it with clearer eyes awakened by the reality of what could happen – good and bad. Living has become more important than just having a “life”. Learning and loving has become more important than marking things off on a goal list. Ambition is there, and vital, but instead of defining life by “what do I need to achieve?”, I more often ask myself “who do I want to be now?”
The privilege of being alive is something I no longer can take for granted. I am grateful for the privilege of getting older. Both my girls taught me that for different reasons.
Instead of reckless hope, I live with a new hope. A different kind of hope. A hope that’s been tested, failed and been renewed.