Apparently I’m Almost 30. Turning 27 and Having an Existential Crisis.

A birthday reflection on getting older, feeling like you’re running out of time, and trying to not hate your birthday.

“You know you’re almost thirty, right?” my mom sneers as I show her an autumnal Peanuts throw blanket with adorable illustrations of Snoopy, Woodstock, and pumpkins. She maniacally laughs as I groan. This exchange has become almost a ritualistic tradition between us every time we browse T. J. Maxx and I inevitably fall for some new Snoopy decor. (But apparently it is not funny to remind her that she actually is fifty when she buys a Cookie Monster cookie for herself at Wegmans. The double standards.)

“And how old are you going to be tomorrow?” my grandma asks over the phone. I try to tell her 22, but she laughs and asks the real age. “27,” I sigh, and she gasps — “You’re that old! That sounds so old when you say it.” Thanks, Grandma.

It’s funny, I wear my Virgo stripes with such pride. When anyone asks what my sign is, I’m so excited to proclaim that it is, indeed, Virgo, the best sign in the zodiac, and provide them with a list of reasons as to why it makes sense that I am a Virgo.

On my nineteenth birthday, a friend at the time dreamt of being a tattoo artist and told me she had learned how to stick and poke and offered to do one for me. I immediately said I wanted the Virgo symbol. In high school, I would use black eyeliner to draw the symbol on myself every single day — a test run to see if I actually did want to commit to the tattoo one day as I so dreamed. So there I sat in my dorm room on my nineteenth birthday with a bottle of Smirnoff and her poking my inner elbow for almost an hour. Almost a decade later, I can debunk the myth for you — stick and pokes definitely are not temporary, and definitely will not start fading away after a couple years.

But as much of a proud Virgo I am — I hate my birthday.

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I always get hit hard with the birthday blues. Another year gone, another year older, and what do I have to show for it?

I remember reading somewhere as a tween in one of those celeb gossip magazines that Avril Lavigne got married at 27. I remember thinking back then that 27 was so grown up and the perfect age to get married, so Avril had set the expectation. I would be married by 27. Yet here I am now, the eve of my 27th, single as a Pringle, and the only one who has accompanied me in my bed the past year is my dog who likes to snore and kick me in the face in the middle of the night (she’s lucky she’s so stinking cute).

27 used to seem so mature — I thought I would have it more together by now. I thought, at the very least, I’d have a car at this stage in life. Or I’d be out of the serving job I started working part-time in college, swearing up and down I’ll get out and do something more with my life. Or I thought I’d be a little further along with my successful art business dream. And if you asked younger me — oh boy, she’d probably have thought I’d be on my tenth best-selling novel by now or something (little me had really high standards).

But here I am, graduating from 26 and feeling so lost and confused. Everyone reminds me how young I am, how much time I have ahead of me, and yet, I am constantly struck with existential dread that I am falling further and further behind. Because why do I feel so old?

(Not to mention my self-imposed existential crisis of my Substack publication name: 26ixty. Do I change it to 27eventy? And 28ighty next year? I don’t know if I could handle aging an extra decade every year… Rebrand potentially on the horizon, stay tuned).

If you’ve already survived your treacherous twenties, you’re probably chuckling — maybe calling me dramatic, maybe recalling your own fears of the future.

And if you are a twenties-veteran, I kindly invite you to leave any advice or wisdom in the comments for myself and fellow scared twenty-something year olds.

I think the fear in getting older isn’t in aging itself, but the fear of running out of time. Goals not achieved and feeling like I’m falling behind in this race-of-life.

But this year, I’m not going to spend my birthday crying in the bathtub feeling sorry for myself that I’m not where I want to be. A wise woman (Miley) once said, “Life is a climb, but the view is great.” Life isn’t a marathon. There’s no rush in achieving your dreams. So instead of feeling like I need to be sent out to the pasture today, I decided to humor myself in the idea that maybe I am still young. I’m going to just start intentionally, yet slowly building towards the life I do want. After all, Vera Wang didn’t start her brand until she was in her 40s. But then again, Chanel was 27 when she opened up her first shop so maybe the clock is ticking…

Kidding! Kidding! We’re not doing this again today…

I’m going to try celebrating today by just being still, present, and creating tiny moments of joy. Maybe I don’t have the car or the dream job yet — but I did rescue a sweet dog and turned her into a strong, healthy, spoiled girlie. I have an apartment that I DIYed into my dream Pinterest board. I’ve also developed my art skills enough to a place where I feel confident in them and am working towards starting an art business. Sometimes I stress too much about the big goals, I forget to stop and recognize all the small successes I do have. Maybe I’m not exactly where I want to be in life, but maybe these were the fundamental stepping stones I’ll look back and realized I need all along. Maybe I’m looking at it all wrong and I’m not behind — maybe the older I get, the closer I am to achieving the life I want.

And if I can leave you with any wisdom from my 27 trips around the sun — dump the man, get a dog, throw out the scale, eat the damn cake, and always keep a fresh jar of pickles in your fridge.

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