If I was to sum up my thirties, I’d say it’s the decade where I’m learning to keep going without feigning certainty.
My younger self liked to feign certainty in such situations. I’d blaze ahead without guarantees, doing bold things. Immigrating to Canada, for example, was bold and blazing and for reasons mostly unfounded. But I love it here — not in a way that makes me think I couldn’t love other alternatives, but in the way that I’ve become attached to the quirky arbitrariness of my own life, the sense that it’s not about picking the right place or person, but about finding small pockets of joy any way, anywhere, with strangers or friends. But mostly quietly and alone.