Thirty-One For Real

 I turned 31 this September, and the old adage “Time and tide wait for none” has never seemed any truer than it does in this moment. I wonder if it’s just me, but I somehow find myself associating more and more with the age I’m no longer at.

The thirties are generally the defining decade of your life, or so I’ve heard. Be it flourishing in your career, growing your family, or being old enough to be called a responsible man or woman, this fourth decade of life honestly makes me feel a little too overwhelmed. It’s sort of hilarious to see myself desperately looking into the mirror and saying. “I look 28 or maybe 29 at best, but certainly not 30 or more.” Simultaneously, my inner voice eerily tries to soothe my anxiety by reminding me that age is just a number. However, I’m not yet ready to take this, because adulting is real and I ain’t comfortable enough to accept that my mum was already a mother of two at my age.

As I reflect on the years that have gone by, my biggest realisation is that time is a thief. A big, bad wolf kind of a thief. Under the garb of growth, it has swiped off my childhood and thousands of precious moments with my loved ones, which I held onto as tightly as I could, only in vain. It has often managed to change my good times into bad. The evil force that time is, it has compelled my once youthful and energetic individuals to slow down, as they now lead their lives as senior citizens. If this is not enough, time has stripped me of the presence of some of my most beloved people, all while relegating them to mere memories.

At this point, I’m pondering over whether I’m more resistant to change than the idea of time itself. My current battle is more about trying to fight the anxiety that comes with the fear of tomorrow than about the past which is not the same as the present. And it is the hope that comes with the anxiety towards a future, which makes the race against time worth it.