Turning 30: Milestones, Mishaps, and Moments That Matter

The past month has been a whirlwind—turning 30, launching a book, and stepping into a whole new chapter of life. One of the busiest, most emotional months of my life, I’m finally catching my breath and looking back. Both milestones feel surreal. Waking up at 30 felt like my frontal lobe developed all over again—suddenly things are clearer, sharper, and I find myself less tolerant of anything (or anyone) that doesn’t serve me. It’s not bitterness, it’s clarity. It’s peace. ( Also, hot flashes officially joined the party. They started creeping in around 29—maybe late 28—but apparently flashing early runs in my family. I can thank my mother’s family for that.)

The first three quarters of this year looked like long nights, countless drafts, behind-the-scenes work, and a lot of quiet planning. I was building toward this moment—launching my company, releasing my debut book, and celebrating my 30th birthday. It wasn’t cheap— financially or emotionally, but it was worth every ounce of effort. And here’s a bragging right: In the first week alone, 60 copies of my book found their way into people’s hands. Sixty! That number may not mean much to some, but to me it means 60 people decided to invest in my story, sit with my words, and embrace my journey. That may not sound like much in publishing-world, but for me, that number isn’t about sales—it’s about connection.

The love and support I’ve received at my book event and since the launch has been overwhelming in the best way. For years, I carried my story inside me. To finally see it bound into pages and in the hands of others—it’s more than I can explain. It’s purpose. Still, this season hasn’t been all celebration. Two people who appear in the book have hurt me in ways that cut deep: my sister and my ex. My sister is mentioned briefly; my ex is the entire last part. Their actions—or lack thereof—hurt in ways that cut deep

My sister and I are estranged. And while I hope she heals, her silence on my birthday and during my book launch cut deep. No acknowledgment, no congratulations, not even allowing my nephew to attend the event. Instead, she’s chosen distance, projection, and unfollowing me everywhere. Growing up, my sister and I always had an iffy relationship—oil and water most days. Still, I believed that adulthood and motherhood would shift things, that shared experiences would pull us closer. And for a while, it seemed like they did. There were moments of progress, glimpses of the bond I always hoped for. That’s what makes the current distance so hard to understand. I can’t pinpoint the issue—none of us can. When asked directly what the issue is, her answers have been circles—deflection, projection, and jealousy that don’t add up to the truth. . It hurts, not just because of what’s missing now, but because of the hope I once had for us. I can honestly say I’ve never made her feel less than, and neither have our parents. But the walls she’s built are hers, not mine. And while I know her healing is her responsibility, it doesn’t make the sting of estrangement any softer. Family bonds are complicated, and sometimes, no matter how much you want closeness, the other person just isn’t willing to meet you there.

My ex…well. I wrote about him the way you write about someone you believed in—big, warm, full of praise. But reality didn’t match the pages. I want to be clear: every word I wrote about him in these pages are pure and genuine. The love and admiration I poured onto paper is real. But I’ve also learned that love alone isn’t enough to sustain me. For my 30th, instead of making me feel seen, he chose to be out of town helping family move. No flowers, no card, no dinner. I cried. I was devastated. I spent my birthday savoring every laugh and moment with my son and my girlfriends, people who showed up in real, tangible ways. I loved every gift, every minute, and I cherished the people who celebrated me. But quietly, I felt the sting: none of it came from him. I felt full and empty at the same time — but I wouldn’t let the empty keep me from enjoying the day. I was 30. I had just launched a book and started my business. Those are milestones, and I celebrated them loud. My son’s dad happened to be in town for his opening game and stepped in to help make the weekend feel meaningful — even though he wasn’t there for my birthday itself. Years ago, when we were still dating, he promised that he’d make sure we each had special birthdays for the big milestones — my son turning 5, me turning 30, and him 35 this year. It wasn’t Greece (what I was promised back then lol), but he showed up in a small, thoughtful way: he and my son bought a cake together and he gifted me a notebook for my next book. It wasn’t about romance; it was about support, presence, and keeping a promise — and it actually meant a lot. He showed up more than the person I expected would prioritize me.

But when it came to my ex, things looked very different and I tried not to let it bother me too much and thought maybe he’d do something for the book launch—something to show he’d been listening—but he arrived late and empty-handed. To be fair, he had helped with some behind-the-scenes stuff — the website, desserts, and food for the launch — but none of it felt personal. That night was the final straw. The birthday and the launch weren’t the sole reasons I walked away. They were the last of the public humiliation and undeniable moments of a longer drift. We had both been moving down different paths for a while. I won’t pretend it was all his fault—I own my parts in the cracks that formed. Still, the truth settled in: we weren’t in the same book, and hope alone couldn’t write our future. It got to a point where every holiday or milestone became a stress test. Valentine’s Day, birthdays, you name it—each one I had to mentally prepare for disappointment. I learned to distract myself, to lower expectations, to make plans that wouldn’t rely on him showing up. That’s not a life I want. I don’t crave grand gestures for the sake of them—I crave reciprocity, planning, and presence. I’ve never been the kind of person to do the bare minimum for someone I love. I show up physically, emotionally, and I try to make life easier for the people around me—especially as a mom. What hurt the most was recognizing that showing up for him was not being matched in return.

Some days I even questioned if love—real love—existed between us. Honestly, if it weren’t for seeing how he stepped up with my child sometimes, I might still be unsure. There were moments he showed up for my son in a way that proved care and responsibility; for that I’m grateful. But loving a person doesn’t cancel out chronic emotional absence. You cannot teach someone who grew up surviving to suddenly walk in love if they don’t want to change. Survival habits are heavy, and sometimes love isn’t enough to rewrite a life pattern. So I left. Not because one birthday stung or one launch went uncelebrated—because the accumulation of small hurts and unmet needs finally outweighed the hope that things would change. Choosing myself felt like the only option left if I wanted a life where celebrations weren’t a test of my worth.

Turning 30 and launching a book have been defining—because of the wins and because of what they revealed. They taught me what I will and will not accept. They pushed me to choose myself when others wouldn’t. They reminded me that even when the people you love let you down, your purpose and your passion can’t be dimmed.

This decade feels like a rebirth: clearer boundaries, a stronger sense of self, and my story finally in the world. Also: a fan is now a necessary accessory, because these hot flashes are no joke.

Here’s to 30. Here’s to 13. Here’s to everything in between.