RIP to My 30s- Thank-You-For-Your-Service

There should be a proper funeral for your 30s.

Not a sad one. A thank-you-for-your-service kind of goodbye.

Because my 30s didn’t leave quietly. They dragged me through growth I didn’t ask for, lessons I resisted, and a body that forced me to slow down when my mind still wanted to sprint. My 30s cracked me open. They humbled me. They rewired me.

So yes—RIP to my 30s.

You were loud. You were chaotic. You were necessary.

But here’s the truth no one tells you:

You don’t walk into your 40s the same way you strutted into your 30s.

You limp.

And that limp? That’s earned.

The Limp Is Not Weakness

It’s wisdom.

The limp is every boundary you finally learned to set.

The limp is the scar tissue that proves you survived.

The limp is the part of you that stopped performing and started protecting your peace.

I used to think thriving meant being unbothered, untouched, unfazed.

Now I know thriving means being aware, intentional, and deeply rooted in reality.

My body changed. My pace changed. My priorities changed.

And instead of apologizing for it, I’m finally honoring it.

My 40s Aren’t About Bouncing Back

They’re about building forward.

I’m not trying to be the woman I was before the pain.

I’m becoming the woman because of it.

This decade isn’t about proving anything.

It’s about choosing myself—over optics, over expectations, over timelines that were never mine to begin with.

I don’t need to rush.

I don’t need to compete.

I don’t need to explain why my life looks different.

I am done romanticizing burnout and calling it ambition.

I am done shrinking discomfort just to make others comfortable.

Thriving Looks Different Now

And That’s the Point.

Thriving is waking up without dread.

Thriving is listening to my body instead of bullying it.

Thriving is slow mornings, strong boundaries, soft confidence.

Thriving is knowing that I don’t need to be fully healed to be fully alive.

I am allowed to move carefully and boldly.

I am allowed to grieve what I lost and celebrate what I gained.

I am allowed to limp—and still arrive exactly where I’m meant to be.

So Here’s to the Women Limping Into Their 40s

With scars.

With stories.

With strength that didn’t come from ease.

We are not late.

We are not broken.

We are not behind.

We are seasoned.

We are awake.

We are finally choosing alignment over applause.

So yes—RIP to my 30s.

And hello to a decade where thriving doesn’t require perfection.

Just honesty.

Just courage.

Just the audacity to keep going—even if the walk looks different now.

And trust me…

This limp?

It’s taking me exactly where I need to be.

I Didn’t Walk Into 40. I Earned It. Sneakers, Stilettos, and a Limp

A Story of Healing, Resilience, and Redefining Womanhood at 40

I didn’t arrive at 40 the way I imagined. There were no effortless strides or polished entrances—only a body that asked me to slow down and listen. This is a reflection on healing, womanhood, and learning to honor the strength it takes to keep moving, even when you limp.

I thought it would come with a dress I couldn’t sit in, heels I couldn’t walk in, and a room full of people clinking glasses to a woman who looked untouched by time. I thought 40 would arrive polished. Put together. Standing tall.

Instead, I’m limping.

I’ve always found a certain beauty in the process of aging. It’s often something we resist, something we fear, yet it holds within it the greatest depths of transformation.

If life were a barrel, I think it would resemble a barrel aging wine. The journey isn’t about a quick fix, nor about rushing to the end. It’s about becoming, slowly, beautifully, and irrevocably changed in ways we can’t always anticipate.

Wine, when placed in a barrel, is left to itself. It rests, develops, and transforms as it quietly absorbs the nuances of the oak and the air. It isn’t rushed. There’s no instant gratification.

We’re like wine. We enter this world full of potential, a little unrefined, raw in our form and understanding of ourselves. And just like wine, we encounter our own versions of barrels—moments, experiences, people, and places that test us, challenge us, and sometimes force us to face the hardest parts of who we are.

I’m limping my way to 40, and somehow, it feels more honest than any version I once fantasized about.

There’s a grief no one prepares you for when your body becomes unfamiliar territory. When movement turns into negotiation. When you wake up already tired—not from lack of sleep, but from the quiet labor of carrying pain that doesn’t clock out.

I think we often look for quick fixes, for shortcuts to feeling whole or fulfilled. But growth doesn’t work like that. Just as wine needs its time in the barrel, we need our time in life to age.

Some days I miss the woman who moved without thinking. The one who ran for no reason. Who danced until her feet hurt in a fun way. Who never measured stairs or parking distances or how long she’d have to stand.

I miss her recklessly.

And yet—she didn’t know things I know now.

She didn’t know how strong you have to be to get dressed when your body argues with you. She didn’t know the discipline of showing up anyway. She didn’t know how to listen—to pain, to limits, to intuition.

Limping teaches you patience whether you want it or not.

It slows you down in a world obsessed with speed. It forces you to feel every step instead of racing past yourself. It humbles you. Softens you. Breaks you open in ways ambition never could.

There’s also something deeply confronting about aging when your body doesn’t follow the script society hands you.

We learn what truly matters, what we can endure, and what we need to let go of. And in the end, we come out of our barrels stronger, deeper, and more refined—just like the finest wine.

So, I say, let life age us. Let it shape us into something worthy of the complexities and challenges we face. In our loneliness, in our quiet reflection, we’re becoming the best version of ourselves. We’re maturing into something worth savoring.

Life, like wine, is best appreciated not in the rush, but in the slow, intentional aging that reveals the depth of who we are.

Let’s honor the aging process. Let’s appreciate the quiet solitude that life sometimes requires. For, just like the best wine, we too are becoming something beautifully rich, something worth waiting for.

“I’m not behind—I’m just moving through life with intention now.”