A few days ago I turned 40. I thought I’d write this straight away, a neat little reflection and a tidy bow on another decade. Instead, I’ve been poorly, moving slowly, and letting the days blur into each other.
Which, honestly, is a pretty accurate summary of my 30s: not tidy, not linear, not always on time… but vivid, full, and real.
So here it is. Not a highlight reel. Not a “look how productive I was” post. A love letter to the decade that stretched me, surprised me, and (eventually) taught me how to take up space in my own life.
If you’re reading this in your 30s, I hope it feels like a hand on your shoulder: you’re not behind. You’re just in it. And there is so much more to do.
What I’m grateful for
I’m grateful for the people who made the ordinary, worth keeping. Those that show up when you need them and are there with an open hand when you haven’t spoken to them in a while.
I became an aunt, to three niblings. I got married, that was a very fun day. I watched friends step into new chapters: weddings, jobs, first homes. I got to be close enough to help carry boxes, pour the wine, and show up for the parts that mattered.
There were Christmas dinners with friends, the kind that feel like a chosen-family tradition you don’t even realise you’re building until you look back. The kind where someone always overdoes it on the roast potatoes, and nobody complains, and the table is loud in that warm, and karaoke is always the best way to end a night.
There were DnD nights, laughter that made my cheeks ache, the gentle chaos of dice rolling across the table. As well as those lovely moments of seeing friends on stage and thinking: Yes. That’s my people. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it but I admire those that do!
When I strip it all back, what I remember most is the steady warmth: the people who stayed, the messages that landed at the right moment, the small, ordinary kindnesses that quietly reshaped my days.
And I want to say this clearly: don’t think your messages and silences go unnoticed. Even when I don’t respond straight away (or at all, thanks ADHD), they are read, loved, and held. Somewhere in the chaos part of my brain, they get filed under safe.
What I’m proud of
I’m proud of what I built slowly, the unglamorous, steady work that adds up. As well as the fuck up along the way.
We refurbished a whole house. Not in a dramatic makeover montage way, but in the real way: dust, decisions, delays, and the constant question of “why does every job turn into three jobs?” And still, piece by piece, it became home. This place is now my sanctuary.
I bought a shed and a greenhouse, started a veg plot, and grew actual food with my own hands (which still feels mildly magical). There’s something grounding about putting your hands in soil and watching proof arrive, one leaf at a time. It’s something that brings me back to my body in a way that I never really understood but now can not do without.
I let myself be a beginner again too: embroidery, watercolour, crochet. I learned that joy doesn’t have to be earned by being instantly good at something. Sometimes the whole point is simply: I like it. I want to try it. And not everything that I do has to be tech based.
Work-wise, my 30s were one long stretch of becoming. I started at Yoast, after complaining about their social media. I spoke at WordPress Accessibility Day. I helped lead a table at WordCamp and went on stage (which still feels like the kind of thing past-me would never believe).
And then burnout arrived, as it does when you keep spending energy like it’s unlimited. Leaving Yoast was a hard reset. It forced me to ask better questions: what kind of work do I want? What kind of pace can I actually sustain? What does “success” look like if it doesn’t cost me myself?
After that came a quieter kind of confidence: setting up our own business, and starting a new chapter at Progress Planner.
Somewhere in there I learned to drive, bought a car, and felt my world widen by a few miles at a time. Not flashy. Just real. And it matters.
What was hard (and what it taught me)
Some parts of this decade hurt. Some parts were frightening. Some parts were just relentlessly a lot, a lot.
There were goodbyes: to friends, to versions of life that didn’t continue, to the idea that things will always stay as they are. Jono’s parents lost Lexi, and even from a little distance, it still hit hard. (If you’ve ever loved an animal, you know how that kind of grief lives in your bones for a while.)
My body demanded attention too. After a brief cancer scare that turned out to be endometriosis, I had a total hysterectomy. It was one of those life moments where you can’t bargain your way out of rest. I learned the hard way that powering through is not a personality trait; it’s a debt, and eventually it comes due.
Then there was Covid, the strange years that warped time, shrank the world, and left many of us quietly changed. I made a lot of sourdough. I tried to find steadiness where I could. I tried to keep my world small enough to hold, and big enough to breathe.
The clearest lesson of the hard bits is simple: I can survive more than I thought, but I don’t want survival to be the default setting.
I want care. I want rest. I want choices that don’t require me to crash afterward. I want a life that fits, not one I constantly have to force myself into.
What I’m choosing next
My 30s were full of wonder, and I want to keep that going into my 40’s.
I went on cruises (Mediterranean and fjords). I road-tripped around Europe, then the UK. I went to Chernobyl. I went to Pompeii. I visited Dracula’s castle. I got to see more of Europe than I’d imagined, plus Bangkok, Bordeaux, and Australia.
I love the way travel rearranges your brain. The way a place can make you feel small in the best possible way. The way you come home and notice different details, your own street and your own routines, like you’re seeing them with fresher eyes.
There were Viking festivals, stationery conferences, weird museums, zoos around the world, theatre trips, multiple Edinburgh Fringes… and the kind of chaotic joy that comes from saying yes to experiences just because they’re interesting.
There were concerts too: Ayreon (including Electric Castle live), Lindsey Stirling, Headspace, Damien shows, and that bittersweet moment of seeing one of my favourite bands play their final gig. Music has been one of my most reliable time machines. One chorus and suddenly I’m back in a different year, with a different version of myself.
And closer to home, there was also wonder: I semi-adopted the next door cat. I got a dog, my constant companion. I volunteered at Holgate Windmill. I hosted barbecues. I built little traditions. I watched community show up in ways that reminded me I don’t have to do everything alone.
Most importantly: I was diagnosed with ADHD.
Not as a neat explanation for everything, but as a key: a way to understand my own patterns with more compassion, and to build systems that support me instead of constantly fighting myself.
It gave me language. It gave me context. It helped me stop treating myself like a problem to solve. And while some still have yet to accept and understand this most of my chosen family went “duh”.
If my 30s taught me anything, it’s that the life I want is made in small choices. So in my 40s I’m choosing more intention, more softness, more honest energy, and less pretending I’m fine when I’m not.
I’m choosing to be clearer about what I need. To protect my attention like it’s valuable (because it is). To keep the wonder, but not at the cost of my wellbeing.
A small ritual for 40
As I step into my 40s, I’m bringing more confidence in myself and fewer apologies.
I’m allowed to do things in a way that works for my brain.
I’m taking the good parts with me: the people, the laughter, the wonder, and the slow-building work that turned into something solid.
And I’m leaving behind the idea that everything has to be earned through exhaustion. You do not need to push through and break yourself, it’s not worth it trust me.
Thank you, 30s, for the messy moments, the big happiness, the tough lessons, and the reminder that I can build a life that truly feels like mine.
Here’s to the next decade: steady, curious, and fully mine.
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