35 and Becoming

I’ve lived 35 years, and I’m still becoming.

Not in a rushing, fixing, dramatic kind of way but in a quiet, rooted way.

A way that stays.

I don’t need to be more.

I just need to keep becoming more of myself.

This birthday doesn’t feel like a reset.

It feels like a return.

A return to the parts of me I abandoned when I thought I had to be perfect to be loved.

A return to softness after years of survival.

A return to beauty not the curated kind, but the real kind.

The unmade-beds kind. Morning coffee. Laughing somewhere with friends.

I don’t have all the answers, but here’s what I do know at 35:

Life is messy.

You’ll cry while working out at the gym with your friend or at the bar.

You’ll laugh in the kitchen during deep conversations on nights you stay in.

You’ll forget your worth, then remember it like a firework.

You’ll lose people who swore they’d never leave only to realize you were doing all the heavy lifting. And yes… it’ll happen more than once.

But then, you’ll find peace in unexpected places.

New York.

A dance class.

South Carolina while visiting a friend.

Mexico.

Mexico City while visiting your uncle.

Italy

Spain

And somewhere along the way, the glow-up happens but it’s internal.

It shows up in how you respond.

How you pause before reacting.

How you protect your peace even when it would be easier to self-destruct.

It shows up after two years of therapy.

After learning how to communicate better.

After choosing healthier bonds with friends, family, and whoever is brave enough to take a real risk on you.

Now, I find joy in the small things.

Coffee runs.

Slow mornings.

Loud dinners.

Spontaneous photoshoots.

Walking aimlessly through New York because I don’t want to go home just yet.

I’ve also learned this:

You can love your life and still long for more.

You can be grateful and still hungry.

You can be more than one thing at once.

You don’t have to follow anyone else’s timeline only your own.

If it feels right to me, that’s what matters.

I met the most down-to-earth dancers, entertainers, and creatives in New York during my mid and late twenties. It felt community based. Real. Appreciated. And I’m grateful I experienced that because now, I know what genuine connection looks like.

Thirty five isn’t the finish line.

It’s the soft middle.

It’s where I stop performing and start embodying.

Where I hustle less for love and trust it more.

Where I know who I am just a little less shy, and a lot more hopeful.

Here’s to not apologizing for who I’ve become.

To loving louder.

Resting deeper.

Laughing easier.

Letting things unfold naturally.

I am so ready for you, 35.