On turning 30…

I honestly didn’t think I’d be this depressed about it. I mourned the day I turned twenty-five. Something about being a grown-up just struck me as sad. I never wanted to grow up although, I suppose, I’d already been forced into premature adulthood by my parents, anyhow. By not being the Mom and Dad they should have been, they ensured that I would step in, for  them. Making it official, however, on my twenty-fifth really sucked.

I don’t think it’s quite the same, this year. I think that I merely hoped to have accomplished so much more. So, it’s not as tough that I am a grown-up, as much as it bothers me that I’m now a grown-up who has done very little with her life. In fact, if it weren’t for my daughter, I would count myself an adult who’d done nothing with her life. Quite luckily, and not only for that reason, I have her.

As much as she keeps me young, I feel my life slipping away, unseen. Publication is still a distant dream on a dwindling horizon and all I have done is to have made an amazing little person. Then again, maybe that’s all I am supposed to have done. Perhaps she is all I am here for, and that is all I can ask for, to do well by her. In that case, I would be considered, so far, a wonderful success story.


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