As the month of December progresses, I come closer to the end of my twenties. The inevitable fate of turning thirty comes with much reflection of my twenties. Looking back to where I started, a naïve twenty year old who eagerly waited for the time I could legally enter an establishment that served alcohol. To be faced with the 29 year old whose hot Saturday nights are spent at Chuck E Cheese with thousands of screaming children. And then somewhere in between I graduated college, entered the workforce, became a home owner, got married and had children. I’m worn out just listing it all. In the three decades I have been on this world, each has grown me exponentially. Looking ahead to the next decade, what do these years have in store for me? No ten year span will ever see me through so much change, at least I hope it won’t. No ten year span will start off so drastically different than it will conclude. And that alone is evidence that I’m really an adult. If being married, having a mortgage and children weren’t enough to prove that I’m an adult, now being thirty will take it over the edge. I’m crossing the threshold into a world where it is never ok to be described as young and immature. My thirty years of existence should have prepared me to make good decisions, learn from my mistakes, and just be an overall good member of society. At least those are the expectations of me as a thirty year old. Now as I plunge ahead, whether I want to or not, I must embrace who I am. And with that I need to accept who I have become; a good employee, a compassionate friend, a loving family member, a decent writer, an attentive wife, and a mom who tries her best to love her children and do right by them. It’s time to put to bed the constant insecurity where it comes to my kids. It’s time to recognize I’m not perfect and stop trying to be perfect. It’s time to embrace that I am who I am, even if that means I’m thirty.