I'm totally fine with turning 35.

things I think about when I'm not scrolling

Dec 23, 2025

Thirty-five arrives quietly on Thanksgiving Day. No fireworks, no sense of arrival. Just a weekday afternoon. My birthday wasn’t as difficult this year — we had decided to have a quiet holiday this time, just us. We made the foods we love to eat and had a lovely dinner at home. My partner baked me a cake and sang me happy birthday. Our dog was able to enjoy a beef bone in her favorite spot on the floor. It was a happy birthday and an even better Thanksgiving, even though it wasn’t loud or dressed up for anyone else.

Lately, time feels heavier in my hands. Not scarce, just noticeable. I catch myself thinking in spans instead of moments, years instead of seasons. I think about what I’ve been hinting around and trying to figure out. There are a lot of things I keep saying I’ll get to when there’s more room, more certainty, more permission.

I tell people I want to slow down. What I usually mean is that I want relief from the constant hum of needing to be reachable, relevant, responsive. My phone is almost always within arm’s reach. Even when nothing is happening, I check anyway. As if attention itself has become a reflex, not a choice.

One afternoon, the air in my home feels suspended. Sunlight slants through the back windows and lands in quiet rectangles on the floor of the living room. The laundry has been sitting on the sofa long enough that it taunts me, it feels accusatory. I decide to stop ignoring it.

I put my phone down on the kitchen island, start to fold the laundry that’s piled up on the sofa. Let me try not needing something on tv, let me try folding a few things while just sitting with my thoughts. Maybe I can stay away from social media for long enough to get a load of laundry folded.

I’ve gotten about half of the stack done when my phone chimes— a text message. I ignore it, setting a blouse on a hanger and draping it over the arm of the couch. I let my mind wander, about what I’ll wear this week. With the cooler weather I’ve been enjoying layering unexpected items or mixing patterns. I think to myself about how I should look into the jewelry brand my cousin sent me, maybe get a few pieces to accentuate my work outfits.

My phone chimes again, then rapidly another right after. I’m brought back to the moment. A few items of clothing have been folded or hung on hangers. My partner calls from the other room, “Hey, are you getting these texts?” I figure it’s the family group chat going off about something. Three more notifications sound as I make my way over. Sighing, I flip my phone over and check the thread.

“Congrats!” “Congratulations, I’m so happy for you!” Message after message as I scroll up to see what’s the big fuss.

My brother and sister-in-law have announced they’re having a baby. The world stops for a few minutes as I stare at the phone in disbelief. I’m so happy for them— this is the best news. Then the surprise settles into my body, makes its way between my bones and rests in understanding.

Oh my god. I’m going to be an auntie. Happy tears come fast and unexpectedly. I feel my shoulders drop as emotion overwhelms me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this. For those few moments, nothing else matters.

I think about all of my aunts, how each one shaped me in quiet, lasting ways. The way they noticed things. The way they remembered. The way they showed up for me, and the way they still do.

I remember pictures of me as a toddler on my dad’s sister’s hip. Another comes to mind, of me with my mom and one of her sisters, all three of us in busy, floral Easter dresses and shiny black shoes with white frilly socks.

I imagine a small hand wrapped around my finger. A future that suddenly feels closer, more intimate. A place I can let my love land.

The feeling has a history.

I reflect on a moment from years ago. I remember vividly the little blip on the monitor, the dark spot in a sea of white, the heartbeat I never heard, the speck of brown in the ceiling tiles. The figure waving at me from his hot-air balloon — that I loved with all of my being but never met. My heart warms thinking about how much my life has changed, the strength that was given to me. And still, a part of me breaks quietly for him, in his hot-air balloon.

After the messages slow, after the adrenaline fades, I sit with the feeling that something has shifted. Not just because of the baby, but because life keeps unfolding whether I feel ready for it or not. Milestones don’t wait for clarity. They arrive mid-afternoon, between chores, while you’re trying to prove to yourself that you can exist as a human without looking at your phone.

my mama (left), auntie (right) and me, circa 1993

Turning thirty-five feels less like a turning point and more like a reckoning with attention. I notice what I give it to. What I withhold. What I keep postponing because it doesn’t translate neatly into outcomes.

I want to take my creative life more seriously. Not louder, not faster. Just more honestly. To write even when it feels unproductive. To make art without trying to position it immediately. To let effort matter more than visibility.

I also want to come back to my people. To be more intentional with family, to pick up the phone more. To be present in rooms, to document the moments for future’s sake, not for online validation.

To even unplug enough to feel bored again, to let my thoughts stretch out without interruption.

Thirty-five feels like the permission I’m finally willing to give myself. To slow down without disappearing. To want more without needing to burn down what I already have. A quieter, steadier devotion to the things I love might actually be the point.

The laundry still isn’t finished. My phone still lights up sometimes, when I leave it behind on the kitchen island. But something in me has softened and sharpened at the same time. I breathe a little slower, a little deeper, and let myself imagine what the next year might hold. A reminder that life is already happening, and that paying attention to it might be the most radical choice I make this year.