There is something very humbling about spending weeks writing what you hope to be both an incredibly moving and humorous take on turning 30, only to open another Word Document titled “Draft 6”, because all 5 other drafts you’ve created left you feeling uninspired, discouraged, and hungry. Only one of those feelings felt familiar. You think about scrapping the entire thing, but that’s hard to do when you have accumulated about 15 pages worth of writing; all organized into different essays. None of which are actually complete because by the time you read through an almost complete version, you’re repulsed by the message, or the flow, or the word choice, or any number of things one could critique. I could just delete it altogether and start fresh, but I’d likely find myself in the same exact situation, only 3 more months from now. With nothing but a couple stress induced stomach aches to show for it.

That sounds like a disclaimer to the reader, apologizing for a mediocre blog they haven’t even read yet. On some level, maybe it is. But I hope it also informs the reader about the internal dialogue that occurs while I write a blog. And maybe, just maybe, this will all connect at the end. Just like the opening scene from an episode of This is Us. It starts with a seemingly irrelevant story line, leaving the viewer wondering, “who are these new characters?! I can’t handle another story line!” The episode continues. The viewer makes some uneducated guesses about how it all connects. And then finally at the end of the episode, it all comes together so beautifully, leaving the once confused viewer counting down the days until the next episode.

You may be asking, did she seriously just compare her blog to a This is Us episode? In a way, I did. And I already regret it.

With that said, let’s get into it. As some of you may know, I recently turned 30. 30 years old. Can you believe that? The day I was born, the New York Giants were playing. My parents watched the game from their hospital room.  They won their game that day, and later that year would win the Super Bowl. Best movies that year included Home Alone, Pretty Woman, and Dances with Wolves.  People traveled using paper maps that were impossible to refold back to their original state. And you always made sure to have at least 8 AA Batteries on hand in case your portable cassette player died while listening to “Ice Ice Baby” which topped the Billboard 100 Chart the week before I was born.  

As my birthday approached, I knew I wanted to write a blog about turning 30. I brainstormed a couple different topics. At one point, I pitched an idea to Keegan, where I would write a 3-part blog detailing the biggest lessons I learned in each decade. And I would release them one week at a time, leading up to my 30^th birthday. He encouraged me, although I could sense some reservation. Probably because we’ve lived together for the last 19 months, he has seen firsthand how long it takes me to write one of these things, and he was concerned about the mental state I would be in as I approached each arbitrary deadline. He’ll read this and say, “that’s not true! I always believed in you!” And I’m inclined to believe him. I am probably projecting. Also we were hunting at the time, so the look in his eyes may have been him willing me to talk quieter because I was scaring away the wildlife.

Luckily, I abandoned that idea somewhere between Draft 1 and Draft 3, and I instead decided to write about a quote my friend Bethany shared with me. I met Bethany when I moved to Midland. We got off on the wrong foot. Well, I got off on the wrong foot. Bethany had no idea. Keegan moved to Midland 4 months before I did. He and Bethany worked at the same company, and in those 4 months, became good friends.  Keegan would tell me, “I can’t wait for you to meet Bethany! She’s so funny and cool. She’s really easy to talk to. You guys will really get along!” That’s nice, right? If only that was the message I heard. What I heard was, “I can’t wait for you to meet Bethany! She’s funnier than you and cooler than you. Bozeman likes her more than you. I think I like her more than you! You guys will really get along!” Getting a glimpse of my inner world? It’s not all pasta and brownies in here.

Fortunately, Keegan was right. After hanging out with Bethany for 30 minutes, I wanted her to sign a contract promising she would never leave Midland so long as I was there. Unfortunately, I was also correct. She is funnier and cooler than me. Whether it’s collaborating on a future stand-up routine or exploring climate change across the globe, conversations with Bethany never disappoint. She is a vat of information, stories, and anecdotes. She’s the person you take to a party and you’re thanked for bringing her. Do I sound in love with her? See! It’s easy to get confused.

Anyway, one day while talking about some subtopic of women’s issues, Bethany shared, “For women, physical beauty peaks at 23, while confidence peaks much later”. Even though I was hearing that quote for the first time, it felt like on some level, I already knew it. Like that feeling when you go to a restaurant and don’t know what you’re in the mood to eat. But then you spot something on the menu with the perfect combination of cheese, meat, and carbs. You didn’t know that’s what you wanted, but now that you’ve seen it, you put down your menu, feeling confident that you’ve found the perfect meal. That is what the quote was for me. Finding a queso cheeseburger with a side of sweet potato fries on the menu at a newly discovered dive bar.

I liked the quote because it rang true. In the last year especially, I noticed myself aging in ways I felt unprepared for. Listen, I know I only turned 30 and I’m not trying to sound like I consider 30 to be the beginning of the end. I’m still young enough to eat the extra piece of pizza, but I do need to know where the next antacid is coming from. I also must consider how much walking I will be doing when selecting a pair of shoes for the day. I purchased my first antiwrinkle cream for the smile lines around my eyes. Also, the distance my boobs drop when I remove my bra is only getting longer. These realities may have led a 23-year-old Kristy to panic. But here I am. Never daring to skip a day without putting moisturizer on my face, and I feel fine!

As much as a cringe admitting this, I’ve always been a bit vein. From a young age, I was obsessed with looking at myself in the mirror. I’m often reminded of one incident when, at about 3 years old, we were eating at one of those old school diners you think of whenever you feel nostalgic about the 50’s. Those diners remain peppered all over the state of New Jersey. With a variety of pie slices in display cases lit by theater quality lighting, and booths with plastic covering capable of tearing the skin off your bare legs when you slid out after polishing off 3 too many pancakes. I guess my family and I sat in the booth and I stared at myself in a nearby mirror for the entire meal. Only to break eye contact with myself to take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich and sip chocolate milk from a brightly colored plastic cup.  

Despite my obsession with my own face, I also hated being called cute. When a relative would call me cute, I would become visibly upset and demand they stop. I would sooner let someone call me the wrong name for an entire basketball season, then allow someone to refer to me as “cute”. That’s a true story. In 1^st grade, my basketball coach called me “Kristin” the entire season and I never corrected him. After the last game, my coach approached my mom and said how fun Kristin was to have on the team. My mom said “you mean, Kristy?” His expression was one of betrayal and embarrassment. I was so mortified I just stared at the gym floor, turning the same shade of red as the Fruit Punch Hi-C I was drinking.

I had the trappings of a confident person. My 4^th grade self believed if Aaron Carter would show up to my school like he did in that one episode of Lizzy McGuire, he would 100% pick me to be his girlfriend. Now if that’s not confidence, I don’t know what is. This sense of self-confidence continued for quite some time, but would not last forever. Let’s fast forward to 2005.

There, in the middle of a florescent lit classroom sits an adolescent female. Her bangs sweep across her left eye. Her hair is dyed with chunky red, black, and blonde highlights, inspired by the girls in punk rock music videos she watched on her parent’s PC using dial up internet. She had the hood of her zip up hoodie holding her hair in place. The hood portrays the message, “please don’t notice me, I’m hiding. But while you’re not noticing me, will you please notice me already!?” Angsty pop punk fills iPod video, as well as a plethora of screamo music she rarely listens but that she keeps on their to impress her older brother, whose approval she continues to seek. When she’s called on to answer a Geometry question, she answers tentatively, despite feeling 100% certain in her answer.  She must not attract attention to her intelligence, otherwise some slacker in the grade above her will ask to be their partner on the next group assignment, with hopes that she’ll do the whole thing. Which she will, because she has no boundaries and is a people pleaser. Being good at math does not fit the apathetic, cool girl vibe she’s going for. Despite the fact that she actually does care a lot, about a lot of things.

As I imagine was the case for many of us, my self-confidence took a sharp turn downward during middle-school to early high school. I tribute some of that to puberty. When I was a freshman, I was minding my business when a particularly shitty boy approached me and asked, “what’s it like to have a mustache?” Like it was a question I could answer. “Well, Justin, thanks for asking. The stache keeps my upper lip slightly warmer in the winter months, but it does collect chip crumbs from time to time, so that’s frustrating. But you know that feeling, right?” Here’s the thing. He didn’t know that feeling because I had a fuller mustache than most boys in my age group at the time. Later that week after crying to my mother, I went for my first “lip wax”.

 At that age, my confidence correlated with my beliefs about my looks. I say beliefs because my evaluation was not based in reality. My evaluation existed strictly in contrast to what I was seeing in Cosmopolitan magazine. Cosmopolitan magazine peaked in the mid to late 00’s, and I referenced it regularly.  Each week, a new issue would provide 34-101 recommendations for wardrobe, accessories, hair styles, and blow jobs. Cosmopolitan Magazine loved talking about blow jobs. I know people criticize Cardi B for putting out sexually explicit content, but Cosmopolitan magazine has been providing written instructions for a number of sexually explicit activities for decades. And you could buy a copy for yourself at your local grocery store and/or airport. But suddenly when Cardi B starts singing about her lady bits and everyone is up in arms? Seems like a double standard but I digress.

Anyway, my self-confidence rebounded when my braces came off. I think the hardware in my mouth attracted more attention to my mustache, so when it was removed, I felt a real sense of relief. I also started growing into my boobs. Some friends were jealous of my rack, but I always wished my boobs would shrink so I didn’t have to wear two sports bras to any event that required me to move at anything more than a light jog.  

Let’s fast forward again. I’m 23 years old. Eating chicken tenders and quesadillas like there are no consequences. Spending my days driving around a golf course with breathtaking views of the front range, soaking up the Colorado sun, while tolerating advances from some male golfers, whom I attempted to charm so I could sell them over-priced Coors Light and Snickers bars. I made good money and received enough compliments that even the most vein version of my inner self was satisfied. Ugh this is gross to talk about but it’s true. And sometimes true is gross. Ask the Pimple Doctor. Also, at that time, I recently graduated college and had been accepted into graduate school. The future looked bright.

On the outside, I should have felt confident. There I was, with perky boobs, a great tan, and an ability to sell a 6 pack of Coors-Light for $25, when you could buy one around the corner at a liquor store for $8.99. But my inner dialogue was not that of a confident person. It was much more self-deprecating. I constantly compared myself to other people. And what I thought I was supposed to be doing after college. I was supposed to be working a salaried job. With 401K contributions and dental insurance. I wasn’t supposed to be living with my mother, getting paid $2.50 after taxes. Using my psychology degree to provide an above average customer service experience to mediocre golf talent in the greater Denver area. This was not what I was supposed to be doing.

I would look around, either in real life or on social media, and identify all the people who were doing “life” better than me. People who had established careers, cute apartments, fulfilling relationships, toned arms, a cute puppy. No comparison was off limits.

The comparison only got worse when I started graduate school. I suddenly shared a classroom with 20 other people with similar interests, strengths, grade point averages, and resume highlights. How was I supposed to feel good about myself if I was surrounded by people I deemed more qualified than me?

I’d be lying if I said I started comparing myself to others at age 23. Honestly, I’d been harnessing that skill for years. That was how I justified quitting soccer. There were too many girls who play better, ran faster, or were unapologetically more aggressive than me.  It’s also why I never pursued creative writing. The other students in my honors English class received better grades on their timed essays, so what’s the point?  No matter what the circumstance, I could always identify the smarter, funnier, prettier, and (fill in the adjective)_-ier person.

At best, I would get an 93% on an assignment and find the person who got a 97% . At worst, when I wanted to try something new, I used comparisons to justify why it wasn’t even worth my time to try.  At medium, it led to infrequent but heated fights with Keegan about why he wouldn’t just admit that he was in love with his funny, cool friend Bethany! If you’re starting to feel a little bit bad for Keegan, it’s OK. I do, too.

Now let’s fast forward again to a couple months ago, when I heard that quote for the first time. Why did it feel so comforting? Of course, it is preposterous to claim physical beauty peaks at 23. Sure, 23 is likely when a woman’s uterus is functioning at its best capacity, but show me a person who believes Jennifer Lopez or Halle Berry were hotter 25 years ago, and I will show you a full blown idiot. It felt comforting because somehow in the last couple of years, I noticed myself feeling more confident despite the way my hair looked, how flattering my outfit was, or the time since my last mustache wax.

I credit the increase in self-confidence to years working with a terrific therapist, reading a lot of self-help books that I’m dying to suggest to anyone and everyone, and an awful lot of journaling. I started to unlearn the skill of comparison and instead started identifying things that were important to me and working on them. Knowing that the working part never really ends.

What does that look like for me? That looks like doing a triathlon, not because I thought I could finish first, but because I hoped I could finish at all. Being a therapist, not because I would be the best one for every person, but because I would be the best one for a person. Starting a blog, not because it would be the best one, but because I wanted to do it. And I liked doing. And nothing could take that feeling away.

And that’s what’s so comforting about that quote.  “For women, physical beauty peaks at 23, while confidence peaks much later”. I’m 30 years old and the self-confidence trajectory continues upward. I mean not straight up. I anticipate highs and lows. But just like the stock market, give it enough time and it always goes back up. At least that’s what I’m told by my Edward Jones Advisor (See. Eventually you do get the job with the 401K contribution. It just takes time). And maybe 40-year-old Kristy will read this in 10 years and cringe at my arrogance. But maybe not. Maybe she’ll be happy that 30-year-old Kristy posted a blog just because she liked it. And worked through the days where she wanted to delete the entire thing, holding on to the belief that one day, it would be good enough. And that it didn’t matter that the internet is jam packed with talented funny people. Because, just like her stance on gray sweatpants, there is always room for more.          

So cheers to 30! Cheers to confidence. Cheers to skin care routines and early bed times. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late…