Reaching Thirty

When I first reached 20 years old, life seemed so endless. Back then it really didn't make any different whether I was nineteen or twenty because hey, age is just a figure. Or you're only as old as you feel. Take you pick. Nothing really seemed to bother me, and in front of me was a sea of endless possibilities and excitement. Really, why think of the future when what I had at that particular time was too numerous to even bother thinking of the elusive future.

So, I kept moving on, passing through years with a sense of focus that made me oblivious of the time. I did what I had to do, I made the best of the time given to me. But all of the sudden, almost ten years have passed by and here I am, nearly at the door - the threshold - between the decade of freedom and independence that I had enjoyed so much and the looming decade of responsibility and maturity that I kind of fear.

Reaching thirty is no way similar to when I crossed over the threshold between nineteen and twenty years old. Here, at the door, I hesitate to reach for the doorknob, wondering whether I have grown up enough to embrace the whole new world of being thirty years old. I wonder whether I have sufficient strength, maturity and grace to be in the thirtieth year of my life. The door looms over me with such warning that I will be opening the door whether I am ready or not.

Life is full of choices. But the choice of staying in the decade of freedom and independence is not one of them.