13 Going On 35?!

#29 The End Of Birthday Month.

At 13, I had life all mapped out.

Married by 21 to my college sweetheart, a bestselling author at 23, with our first child arriving soon after my debut hit the shelves. My second novel would be underway just as baby number two made their appearance. Neat, tidy, almost cinematic. The kind of plan that only a teenager could come up with—naïve in its optimism, blissfully unaware of life’s unpredictable nature.

Then, at 16, I got what seemed like the first confirmation that maybe—just maybe—the universe was on board. The lead defense from the football team, with his perfectly tousled hair and a smile that made forgetting math formulas seem like a reasonable trade-off, asked me out. Let’s call him Munchkin—an unfortunate nickname that clung to him thanks to a nose that was a little too reminiscent of one. He strolled over one afternoon, effortlessly charming, as though this was all part of his daily routine, flashed that grin, and for a moment, the world slowed down in that utterly predictable, clichéd way I’d later make fun of in my own writing. But at 16, it was the stuff of daydreams.

The years between 16 and 21 were a montage of whispered promises, graduation plans, and late-night talks about our future—until he shattered the entire script. By 23, Munchkin had left the country, left me, and—just for good measure—left me with the classic heartbreak trifecta:

1. Munchkin left for another country, blowing up my post-grad (immediate) wedding plans

2. He cheated, of course. Because nothing says “personal growth” like a new girlfriend who looked like a shampoo commercial and had a degree in finance (the antithesis of everything I was, and I was starting to feel the weight of those differences).

3. And, perhaps worst of all, he didn’t even try to lie about it. He introduced me to their hamster—yes, their hamster—during our breakup call, as if that would somehow soften the blow.

As you can see, 13 going on 35 and I’m still occasionally haunted by the memory of that hamster. So yes, there’s some residual damage there. But hey, one woman’s heartbreak is another writer’s goldmine—if that’s not already a quote, I’m officially staking my claim on it.

Years have passed, and while I didn’t marry my high school sweetheart at 21, I did tie the knot at 30. And, in true me fashion, it happened in the most serendipitous yet utterly unbelievable way. He’s lovable, caring, and has a sense of humor that makes me snort in a completely undignified manner. It’s been a wild ride, to say the least.

We jumped straight into married life just as the pandemic hit—talk about timing. Suddenly, we were navigating a new home, a new job, and a new reality, all while the world outside felt like it was on pause, trapped under restrictions none of us had ever imagined.

And just like that, I found myself on the eve of my 35th birthday. It was an odd one, a quiet kind of reflection. The 13-year-old version of me had long made peace with the fact that life doesn’t follow a neatly laid-out plan. It twists, it shifts.

Over the years, I was that person—the one whose parties became the stuff of legend. In fact, one New Year’s Eve still stands out for all the wrong reasons. A friend brought a friend, who brought another friend, who thought it appropriate to invite even more. By the end of it, one of the boys had the audacity to hit on me—on the terrace of my own home—suggesting we “head down to his bedroom.” Naturally, I kicked out every last stranger before midnight, and those of us who remained laughed about it for weeks after. But somewhere along the way, I’ve become The One Who Stays at Home.

I’m not entirely sure when or how I earned this title. Maybe it’s a leftover from the pandemic, when staying in became second nature. Or maybe it’s because I work from home, and days blend together in a way that’s both comforting and isolating. But the real question is, why does it feel so permanent?

One of the things 13-year-old me could never have predicted was loneliness. She didn’t foresee the slow fade of friendships into status updates and group chats. She certainly couldn’t imagine finding solace in the glow of a laptop screen, where work and connection merged in ways that didn’t quite feel real. Slowly, and then all at once, I watched my closest friends slip into lives I wasn’t a part of anymore. Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled for them, proud even.

But there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder… what’s in store for me?

The irony isn’t lost on me.

At 13, I was so sure about how my life would unfold—every detail scripted with precision, every milestone accounted for. And yet, here I am at 35, standing at a crossroads I never saw coming. This isn’t the life I planned, but it’s the one I’m living. Now, the question is: do I find my way back into the fold, try to reconnect with the parts of my past that seem to have slipped through my fingers? Or… is this the sign I’ve been waiting for—the nudge to finally start living the life I’ve always dreamed of?

The truth is, life doesn’t come with a map. No matter how much we plan, how carefully we craft our vision of the future, the path twists and turns, and we find ourselves in uncharted territory. At 13, the idea of veering off course felt like failure, like I had missed the mark. But now, I’m starting to wonder if it’s simply part of the process—if arriving at this unexpected place is less about losing my way and more about discovering a new one.

As much as I’ve seen people around me move forward in their own directions, I’ve realised that I’m not standing still. My life may not look like theirs, but it’s mine. The freedom to redefine what success, love, and happiness look like is both terrifying and exhilarating.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I had a conversation that brought this realisation into focus. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and he asked me to close the windows because it was “too noisy” outside. The thing is, I hadn’t even noticed the noise. I tend to leave the windows open when I’m working alone because it makes me feel connected to the world outside—like I’m still part of the everyday hum of life, even if I’m sitting at home, staring at my screen. I mentioned it casually, not thinking much of it, but hours later, as we were falling asleep, he brought it up again.

“That really hit me, you know? I didn’t realise you felt that way,” he said, turning toward me. “Maybe you should start reconnecting with some old friends. Or join a class—something that gets you out there again.”

His words struck a chord. He was right—I had been waiting, almost passively, for my life to unfold. But maybe it wasn’t about waiting. Maybe it was time to step into something new. The idea of getting out there, of meeting new people, starting new conversations, scares me. I’ve always heard that you don’t make new friends once you’re older, or that it’s tough to start over socially. And, in some ways, that fear has kept me from trying.

It’s hard to shake the idea that I should have it all figured out by now.

I used to think that starting again meant I’d failed somewhere along the way. And who’s to say I haven’t? Who’s keeping score, anyway? Maybe this is exactly where I need to be—standing on the edge of something new, something unplanned, and maybe, just maybe, that’s where all the best stories begin.

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