I'm thirty now and the heavy symbolism and expectation attached to this chronological year has mostly not bothered me, but possibly that's because externally, I am typical for this age. I am married, employed, moving closer to professional goals (just submitted my hours for licensure, small private practice, recent new job offer), accepting of the complications of my family while maintaining amiable ties, in relatively good health but more conscious of the slowing metabolism and back pains, still hopelessly in debt (grad school's a doozy), making car payments and rent payments and cursing people my age who buy houses in the Bay Area out of my own jealousy, generally less social due to dwindling long term friends in the area but very actively invested in coworker friends and cultivating couple friends, more committed in my spiritual practices, and contemplating getting a dog eventually since the urge to expand is ever present but childrearing is not currently on the table.
Maybe this need to write comes from places of transition. Constant themes of wanting to leave and wanting to stay (relationally, geographically, professionally) and with those turning points, a desire to take stock. I'm about to leave the job I've been at for the last two years and the clients are heavy on my mind, invading my dreams and amping the cortisol levels flooding my system. Writing has always been a purge. Maybe there are no neat endings that I can walk away from. No "no doubt, as usual, I exaggerated everything." Maybe I will keep reopening the book and making new chapters, regardless of their messiness. In fact, I hope I do.