[I wrote this at the end of July, but couldn’t post it until now, for fear of giving too much away and sharing news that I wasn’t supposed to share just yet. But the sentiments expressed still hold true. Even more so.]

It’s been hot in Boston for three weeks and counting. Humid and sticky and hot. For those of you who live in the South or the Midwest, three weeks is nothing. Three weeks is a walk in the park, a breeze, a we-wish scenario.

But up here in the Northeast, we’re not accustomed to it. Typically, our heat wave, if we have one, comes later—in August. And it lasts for about two weeks, tops. So we’re not prepared for this, not equipped. Boston’s buildings are old; central air is a foreign concept, a new-fangled technology that we’ve stubbornly resisted.

During Week One, people grumbled and groaned. As a city, we were lethargic and agitated. Everyone was tired. In a bad mood. People snapped at one another on the train. Bosses yelled at their employees. Children threw more tantrums in the supermarket.

As we entered Week Two, we complained. We wondered when the heat would let up, because surely it had to end soon, right? We made comments about global warming and saw a lot of movies to stay cool.

By Week Three, we had stopped our bitching and moaning. We resigned ourselves to the weather, to the high energy bills we’d pay as we overworked our AC window units. We took cold showers and sat in front of fans. The heat, it seemed, was here to stay. So we adapted. We hoped for a break, for a burst of low temperatures, but we expected heat. It had seeped into our lives, and we had no choice but to make the best of it.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I stepped out of my apartment this morning at 5:45 a.m. in a T-shirt and shorts, something I’ve done almost every day for the last two weeks, and felt cool air on my skin. I stood on the porch for a second or two, trying to decide whether or not I needed a sweatshirt. A sweatshirt.

I was dumbfounded. I got into my car and rolled down my window for the first time in three weeks, maybe more. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I wanted to kiss the air.

This year has been a tough one, for many reasons, for many of my loved ones and for me. It’s been the kind of year that makes you want to give up, to let go of whatever it is you’re hoping for; the kind of year that kicks you when you’re down, then kicks you one more time, for good measure.

Though I’ve always been the type of person who braces herself for bad things to happen, falling into a pit of depression and despair when they do, this year has been different. I’ve felt different. I haven’t had time for despair, haven’t had the luxury of sitting on my couch for days or weeks, eating boxes of Fudgesicles while watching Friends re-runs to ease my anxiety and numb my pain. Too many scary things have happened, and too many scary things might happen. The stakes are higher, and I’ve had no choice but to keep moving. To adapt. To hope for good things, but to expect the bad.

What I’m trying to say is: you get used to it, the heat, the way things currently are. And at some point, you stop thinking that they’ll be any different, any better. It isn’t hopelessness, or acceptance. It’s survival.

So when something does change—big or small—when something remarkable happens, when what you’re used to is turned on its head, and you’re presented with something you’ve wanted and hoped for, something you had started to think you’d never get, it’s terror-inducing. The fear is real and big and overwhelming, but so, too, is the joy.

I’m not sure if I believe in a higher power. I know that many people turn to faith or God or whomever in times of great need and sorrow, that they find comfort there. I don’t. I can count the number of times I’ve prayed—out of abject desperation—on two hands; some of my prayers have been answered, some haven’t.

Odd as it may be, it’s when good things, remarkable things happen—the heat wave breaks, the losing streak ends, the year of just getting by takes an unexpected turn—that I wish I was a true believer. I wish I believed because then I would have someone to thank. Today, my gratitude is immense, and if I believed, I would get down on my knees and say thank you. I would say it all day and all night, all week or all month; I would say it over and over again and wouldn’t stop until I believed it—until I believed my good fortune.

And then I’d say it one more time, for good measure.

I’ve never kept a journal. I’ve tried. About 15 times. I’m a writer, after all. We’re supposed to really dig journals and write in them every single day. But every journal I’ve ever started ends after about one or two (really lame) entries. Then it’s nothing but blank pages. And my kind hates blank pages.

I’ve given it some thought, and here’s what I’ve come up with as to why I can’t embrace the journal:

1. There’s no audience. Apparently, I need this, regardless of whether or not my stuff gets read. When I write, I assume that at some point, someone, anyone, will read my writing. So in a sense, I’m addressing those people; I’m writing for them (as well as for myself). But a journal? I simply can’t bring myself to write for or to an inanimate object. I tend to ask a lot of questions in my writing (Why does the world suck so hard? How do we survive it? Why do we survive it?), but as much as I’d like it to, a cheap empty book of paper sure as shit can’t answer them.
2. It’s too forced. Dear Inanimate Object, Today I went to work. It was fine. Afterwards, I went over to J and Cris’s for dinner, and everyone got really drunk and hated on one another. I said a lot of dumb stuff, mostly because I’m really sad about the fact that my dad has cancer and scared that he’s going to die. It really sucks. But tomorrow’s another day! Your pal, Julie. The thing is, I’m slow to process and express myself. This is why I’m a writer. I think too much and need more time to express those thoughts. They can’t be rushed or forced. Trust me. I’ve tried.
3. I sound like a fucking idiot. See #1 and #2. After I’m dead, and my children are wading through the crap that was my life, I don’t want them stumbling upon a journal that confirms what they’ve always suspected: their mother is a complete and total moron with absolutely nothing interesting to say. This may be true, but I don’t want to leave them with hard evidence.

In college, as a super nerdy wanna-be writer, I would jot down passages from my favorite books. I would photocopy poems or clip quotations out of magazines that spoke to me or perfectly expressed how I felt. I accrued so many of these clippings and copies and quotes that I started taping them into a notebook. Only when I had filled two of these notebooks did I realize that this was my way of keeping a journal.

Because I seem to be equally bad at maintaining this blog, in addition to Julie originals, I plan to post some writing that you’d find in my kind of journal. Not necessarily because I’m lazy (which I am), but because most of the time, other writers just write it so much better.

Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

A while back, my best friend Lizzi gave me a tough-love speech about my writing.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she told me. “So many people don’t know what they want to do with their lives. You do. You do, and you’re not doing it.”

She had (has) a point.

My other friends express the occasional interest/concern, too. Just this past week, my friend Adam asked me about The Book.

I attempted to dodge him, mumbling something about if I wanted to work on it I would and when the time is right and I’ll get to it eventually. Sensing my neuroses, he said, “I’m not sure whether or not to ask about it. It’s probably annoying, huh?”

But the truth is, it wasn’t (isn’t). No, I told him. It’s good for me to be reminded of That Gift I’ve Been Given That I Haven’t Been Doing Shit With. My squandered talent. The thing that I supposedly love to do and yet don’t. Good to be reminded, because I spend a lot of time trying not to think about it. Because when I do think about it, I can’t come up with a good reason why. Why I continue to squander and ignore and waste and dodge.

Theories abound. I’m afraid? Maybe. I don’t think I’m talented, good enough, interesting enough, enough enough enough to “make it?” Probably. I’m lazy and just want to watch TV for the rest of my life? Perhaps. I write marketing copy all day and can’t muster any more creativity in my spare time? Could be. The Book and the issue of what the fuck to do with it and how the fuck to re-write it have so mentally constipated me that I’m literally unable to work on anything else? A good guess. I’m not really excited about my life and haven’t had sex in a very long time or been in a relationship since Bush’s first term? Okay. A combination of all of these things and more? Sure, why not?

My point being: I have no fucking clue why I’d rather write about not writing than write something of actual substance. And without understanding the why, I’m not quite sure how to overcome the problem, other than just telling myself to get off my ass and goddammit do something already. But that hasn’t really been working out so well for me.

Own worst enemy? Yep, that would be me.

My only consolation is that I’m not alone. Other writers experience the same damn issues. In her post on writeforyourlife.net, a site about writing that I read in lieu of writing myself, Manuela Boyle breaks it down:

There are lots of us writers who make their living doing the thing they love; and yet as a result, don’t make their living in the way they’d really love.

What I’m trying to say is that the writing skillset is like France: much bigger than you thought when you get there, and that if you’ve got talent, then hell, make like Simon Cowell and put it to work.

But let’s pause and think about the writer’s gentle soul awhile. Some of the copywriters I know have literary or non-fiction ambitions; others quite simply, don’t.

Some are lazy when it comes to that magnus opus, some think they’ll eventually get round to it, and others know their own creative practice is good for them, like greens are, but don’t want to participate.

A handful—and here’s the type that impresses me most—do both. They write copy in the day, and create worlds of their own by night.

What of the writer who is (g) all of the above? What will light a fire under her ass? Though a better question might be: If the fire isn’t already lit, is it even worth hunting around for those matches?

In middle school, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to write, and this seemed like the most “practical” approach. I envisioned myself interviewing people, writing under tight deadlines, and working in a frantic office where everyone had had too much coffee. Neither one of my parents drank coffee, so I envisioned it as something that other, more exciting adults did. Something that professional journalists did.

When I entered high school, I signed up to write for the school paper. I was assigned to the features section, and for a while, this suited me just fine. News could be boring, I reasoned. Feature articles would allow me to flex my creative muscles and write about real people and the things that were important to them. I am and always have been a human-interest kind of girl.

Every month, my editor would assign a topic, and at first, I loved it. I wrote about the “fun” stuff, wrote the articles that people would actually read—about Valentine’s Day and beloved childhood toys and the reasons that teenagers spent so much time on the phone.

But after a year or so, I was bored. I wrote my articles during my lunch period, an hour before they were due. I had mastered the features formula: catchy lede, set-up, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, cute full-circle concluding sentence. And my assigned topics got dumber and more ridiculous. One of the last articles I wrote was about PDA. Public displays of affection. During a free period, I had wandered the halls of my school, interrupting couples mid-grope to ask them why. Why are you touching your girlfriend’s breast in the library?

So, when the newspaper advisor offered me an opportunity to write an op-ed, I jumped at the chance. Maybe this was my true calling! I thought. I would use my words to take a stand, to convince people that I was right and that they were wrong. My articles would have substance!

My assigned topic: homophobia. Was homophobia a problem in our school? The year was 1995: of course homophobia was a problem. I got to work, discussing the topic at length with my friends and teachers. And I listened. I listened as boys called one another “faggots” and passed judgment with “that’s so gay.” I asked my fellow students why they used these expressions and received some interesting answers. I poured my heart into that article, believing that it could open a dialogue and, in some very small way, actually make a difference.

But all of my hard work was for nothing. My advisor had wanted an op-ed that expressed her opinion, one that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers or include the “f” word. Re-write it, she told me, and argue the other side. In other words, my advisor wanted me to lie. Worse, she wanted me to compromise my entire belief system, the very core of my being, the kind of person I aspired to be.

I was enraged. I told her that I quit, and marched into my guidance counselor’s office, demanding that he drop me from the newspaper. I fought back tears as I explained what had happened.

“This is absolutely no problem,” he assured me. “You’re doing the right thing.”

As it so happened, my guidance counselor, in addition to being sympathetic and understanding, was gay.

That night, I told my mom that I had quit the newspaper. She had just walked through the door, and was distracted, sifting through the mail.

“What?” she said, whipping her head up to look at me. “Why?” She knew how important my journalistic aspirations were to me.

I broke down then. I had never quit anything in my life, and this had been my dream. More than anything, though, I was so disappointed. So disillusioned. How could the world work like this? How did people who cared as much as I did even stand a chance?

I cried and cried, and when I stopped, my mom told me that she was proud of me. For quitting? I asked. No, she said. For standing up for what you believe in.

Today is my 31st birthday. It’s much calmer, much more relaxed than 30 was. One might call it anticlimactic, but that implies a let-down of some kind, unfulfilled expectations, and I don’t feel that way. The nice thing about relaxed is that it allows you to contemplate your age, your life, and your accomplishments in a productive way.

I was reminded of the above story this past weekend, and thought that it was a fitting 31st birthday tale. People who have lived through their 30s often tell me that it’s the best decade, that you know yourself so much better and subsequently have an easier time of it, enjoy it more.

I may have given up on a childhood dream when I was 16, but at 31, I am thankful for that experience—and where it led me. I am thankful for the people who have shaped me, shaped my life, made it better.

As I move further and further into adulthood, I hope for many things. But mostly, I hope that I continue to be the kind of person who makes her mother proud.

I have mixed feelings about fall. While most people declare it their favorite season, what with the pretty leaves and gorgeous weather, I approach fall with a conflicted mix of excitement and apprehension. For me, the arrival of this favored time of year is like running into an old flame, familiar yet foreign.

Historically, on the whole, fall has been good to me. (Unlike that manipulative bitch, spring, who plies me with false hope, only to knock me down and beat me with a rusty baseball bat.) No, fall has brought me all kinds of goodies over the years—my best friend, my first love, my favorite two-year-old, pumpkin-flavored everything—and yet, still, the apprehension.

This is due in part to the fact that fall stirs up memories and nostalgia like no other season. I step outside and suddenly it’s late September of 1997 and I’m falling in love for the first time, feeling light and giddy and excited and just so hopeful. I notice the changing leaves on my way into work and I’m back in Virginia, driving to a bed and breakfast with my ex, feeling, yes, happy and excited and hopeful. Or it’s October of 2001 and I’m in the apartment I shared with Lizzi in Alexandria, five miles from the Pentagon; she’s making cookies, and I feel safe and comforted despite the fact that there are men with guns on the street and the world is crumbling around us.

The memories are visceral. It’s as though fall removes the barriers of time, and I’m like a character in Lost, being yanked in and out of moments in my life. It makes me sad, reliving these moments, because I know how they end. I know that they end.

And yet, at the same time, with fall also comes anticipation. Another visceral feeling—something, anything might happen. Something good. Excitement, because despite the endings, when fall comes around yet again, I know that its those beginnings I’ll remember.

Since starting my new job in February, I’ve spent a lot of time in the car. A lot.

I don’t really like all the driving and sitting, especially after taking public transportation for three years, but my brother has made my commute more bearable by giving me a cord to connect my iPod to my radio. (I know this is not a new thing to most people, but it has revolutionized my life.)

Every morning and every evening, 45 minutes there and one hour back, I shuffle. I have almost 2,000 songs on my iPod, and I cruise through all of them, bypassing the ones I don’t really like or don’t feel in the mood for. Sometimes I’m tired and I want something peppy, something to sing along to. Other times I’m contemplative and need some middle-ground music: not peppy, but not slow, either. Sometimes I’m feeling gushy and happy about life and want love songs. Other times I want to hang myself in my closet and need an appropriate suicide-inducing soundtrack. Crying, singing, zoning out—the music I choose to listen to in my car is dependent upon my mood on that given day in that given moment.

There are, however, a few exceptions. A few songs on my iPod that make the cut, no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, sad, I never skip them, and I never tire of them.

“Missing You” – John Waite
I actually have two versions of this song—the original, and one that he sings with Alison Krauss. (Both are excellent.) What I like about this song is that it can fit a variety of moods. It covers the full range of post-break-up emotions: denial, anger, heartache, acceptance, peace. No matter what stage of a break-up you’re in, this song has got you covered. At the same time, if you’re not sad or heartbroken, the beauty of “Missing You” is that it won’t bring you down. The tune is just upbeat enough that you can still sing along, all the while thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that guy.

“Sway” – Bic Runga
This song makes me feel all misty inside. That doesn’t really make sense, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I heard this song for the first time while watching American Pie back in college; it’s played at the end, when the boys are finally doing the deed with their respective women. The second time I heard it was in the room of a friend whom I later fell semi-in-love with. Despite the fact that he didn’t reciprocate my feelings, I’ve always loved this song. For me it’s all about longing and not being able to convey everything you’re feeling about someone. And I suppose I’m always feeling that longing, for something or someone. My head is battling with my heart / My logic’s all been torn apart / I say it’s all because of you.

“After All” – Cher and Peter Cetera
Yes, this is the cheesiest song on this list (though, c’mon, it’s me. They’re all cheesy). When we were kids, my brother Peter and I would find a movie we liked and watch it over and over and over and over again until the tape wore out—our obsessive natures revealing themselves. One of these movies was the 1989 classic, Chances Are, starring Robert Downey Jr. and Cybil Shepherd. And the theme song for the movie was, you guessed it, “After All.” (The song won an Oscar. Go figure.) Even though it’s not the most appropriate song to share with one’s brother, to this day I still consider it our song (just substitute “kiss” with “punch to the head”). My brother is, after all (ha), the one man who has always been and will always be there for me. Now that was cheesy.

“Bleed to Love Her” – Fleetwood Mac
This song just fucking rocks. And I’m not saying that because I have the hots for Lindsey Buckingham (which I do). I loved this song the first time I heard it, but it was actually my best friend Lizzi who sealed the deal for me. Not only did she adopt the song and play it on repeat while at the office and in our apartment, but she also once said to me, “This song always makes me think of you, because it describes how I want the man you end up with to feel about you.” Sniff.

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel
This is hands down my favorite song of all time. (Though Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” is a close second.) Aside from the John Cusack/Lloyd Dobler-ness of it all (“I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen”), this song expresses how I feel about love. What love is and what it means to me. Without a noise / Without my pride / I reach out from the inside.

How about you? Which songs do you never tire of? Which songs fit all of your moods?

Copyblogger recently posted a list of 73 ways to become a better writer. It’s a great list, one that I should take to heart—a list that should inspire me to get off of my ass and, you know, write. 

Unfortunately, these days I could probably come up with my own list: 73 ways to suck as a writer. #1 would be: Don’t write. #2: Watch Netflix DVDs of The West Wing instead of writing. #3: Sit down to write then check Facebook instead. #4: Turn the TV back on. You get the picture.

I’m in a slump. It’s not a block. A block would imply that there’s something I want to write, something percolating in my brain that I simply can’t get out. The truth is much more pathetic. There ain’t nothing in there. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The truth is, I’m bored.

At the moment, my life is boring. My friends will protest, but I will insist upon this fact. Everything is good, calm. No almost relationships (February). No self-inflicted angst (March). No break-ups/anniversaries of ex-boyfriends’ deaths (April). No debilitating, self-destructive depressions (May). No weddings or weekend trips (June).

For most people, boring is a good thing. No more drama, baby. In our lives. (A good song, by the way.) But for a person who writes about her life, it’s a major buzz-kill/mood-breaker/cock-blocker. I sit down to write, and all I feel is malaise. I could write, eh, or I could go to bed early. What does it matter?

The obvious solution is to make something exciting happen in my life, right? I could meet someone! And fall in love! And write about it! If only life worked that way. As I’m still learning, there’s not a whole lot about my situation that’s in my control. Except for my writing. I do control that, and I can make that piece more interesting, more prominent.

Except that right now, I can’t. You see my dilemma.

But like an impotent man gunning for that erection, I will keep trying. I’ve even pulled The Book out of hiding. It’s on my coffee table. I’ve re-read the prologue. I’ve even re-written the beginning in an effort to start over, though it lacks a certain something.

I think they call it inspiration.

I recently broke up with someone. The break-up had nothing to do with our feelings, per se, and everything to do with timing. Or rather, our age difference: He’s 32. I’m 30.

I know. That sounds ridiculous. But among the single, never-been-married, over-30 crowd, a few years can mean the difference between wanting to grow up and, well, not. Translation: I was ready for a more serious commitment, and he just wanted to “hang out and have fun.”

The signs, of course, were there. Sure, on our first date he showed me a photo of his friend’s kid, and on our third he mentioned that he wished he had someone to bring home with him for the holidays. But his friends were a dead giveaway. Friends whom he was “embarrassed” to introduce me to. So they’re a little obnoxious, I thought. Maybe they make fart jokes. No big deal.

They did that and more—on our third meeting, his roommate announced that he had to poop and proceeded to talk to us through the bathroom door—but their lack of social graces wasn’t the issue. Rather, the issue was this: After a night of drinking (on a school night, no less)—this crew pretty much drank every night—I woke at 4:00 a.m. with a full bladder. I threw on some clothes and tiptoed out to the hall. Not only was the bathroom occupied, but there was also someone waiting to use it. (I should mention here that though my not-boyfriend only had one roommate, about two or three other people stayed at his place regularly, kind of like stray dogs. Only drunk, stoned stray dogs that vomit in your living room.) I stormed back into the bedroom and barked at my mostly asleep not-boyfriend: Are you fucking kidding me with this? Are we in goddamned college?

And therein lay the root of our problems. Aside from his job, the 32-year-old man that I was dating was living the life of a 22-year-old. I, on the other hand, was living the life of someone in her 30s: I have my own apartment. I have friends who have real jobs, friends who get up and go to work each day in order to pay the bills. Some of my friends are married. A few even have kids and a house.

When I was dating my not-BF, however, I worried about this. Was I old beyond my years? Were my days of fun and drinking over? Why hadn’t the cops shown up at one of my parties recently? While I don’t want to live like a college student, I also don’t want to move out to the suburbs and join the PTA.

I tried (and failed) to explain this to the NBF. There could be a middle ground, I told him. Marriage doesn’t have to mean the end of sex and life as you know it. Children don’t have to hinder your glass-of-wine-a-night habit. Growing up does not have to mean becoming your parents. It does, however, mean relinquishing your adolescence. And, frankly, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Granted, there’s no line at my bathroom door in the middle of the night. And my friends aren’t smoking up and setting off illegal fireworks in the middle of the street on a Wednesday night. The cheap thrills are fewer. But I’ve been there and I’ve done that. For about ten years, in my 20s. (For my friends, it was tequila and a piñata filled with sex toys and lube.) And, lord knows, I did it up right.

But there’s so much that I haven’t done. And, as any older, wiser person will tell you, it’s the experiences you have as an adult that’s the true stuff of life. Falling in love, real love, based on more than just hormones and lust. Committing your life to someone. Having really good sex. Holding your child (or a friend’s child, for that matter) for the first time. Watching your children grow and learn and develop. Putting someone else’s happiness before your own. Finally landing that dream job. Or publishing that book. And it’s all the little steps you take along the way that matter most, the quiet, ordinary moments that occur naturally, without the assistance of booze or drugs or someone’s dumbass roommate.

While a prolonged adolescence may be fun, free of encumbrance and responsibilities, at the end of the day, what do you have other than an expensive beer tab? What gives your life meaning? Perhaps, though, living a meaningful life is only something that those of us who’ve taken the leap into adulthood worry about.

As my old pal Joni Mitchell once sang, something’s lost, but something’s gained, in living every day. Rather than trying to hold onto what you’ve lost, growing up means embracing the gains, in whatever form they take. And, god, there are just so many of them. I look forward to each and every one.

Earlier this week I attended a conference for work, where I learned a lot about marketing. Brand. Key messages. Identity. Campaign. I’ve got a little street cred now and am down with the marketing lingo. I could even tell you what a ROI is without having to google it.

I joke, but learning how to market is essentially learning how to change the way you think. Or rather, marketing forces you to think about things in a different way. For me, this is both a good and a bad thing. On the one hand, my brain is expanding—I can feel it stretching, and I have to say, it feels damn good. On the other hand, who the fuck wants to think like a salesperson? I can’t help but feel a little dirty when I get excited about a well-executed brand.

But, hey, it’s a dirty world and a girl’s gotta pay the rent.

In any case, at one of the sessions I attended, the speaker explained that in order to “defeat the competitors for your donors,” you have to earn the trust of your audience. (Really? In order to get people to give me money, they have to trust me? You’re fucking kidding me. [I should mention here that most of marketing is telling people what they already know, but packaging it as something new.])

To illustrate what he meant by “trust,” the speaker pulled out the following equation:

                             Trust   =   credibility x intimacy
                                             _______________________

                                                          risk

If the risk is greater, he explained, credibility and intimacy have to be greater, too.

Though I never liked math all that much, according to my best friend Lizzi, I am a quantifier. I don’t always know what she means by this, but when I saw the equation and immediately started applying it not to my job, but to my life—more specifically, my love life—I got it. How wonderful would it be, I thought, tuning out the rest of the lecture, if trust was as simple as an equation?

It’s a known fact, within certain circles, that I’m always getting in my own way. I create problems where there are no problems. I complain about life being hard, and sometimes it is, but most of the time I’m simply making it harder for myself. After three years of therapy and a lifetime of self-analysis, I’ve concluded that, aside from my parents, the majority of my issues revolve around one word. Any guesses? Yep, trust. As in, I can’t do it. I can’t completely trust others, and I sure as hell can’t always trust myself.

So I quantify. And seek out equations to quell the anxiety of never trusting.

If a = b and b = c, then a = c translates into: If he used to call me twice a day and now only calls me once a day, then he no longer likes me and thinks I’m ugly. When x is negative, y is positive translates into: The more I like him, the less he will like me. And so on.

I love my equations. They simplify the loud spinning mess inside my head. They allow me to justify my assumptions. He doesn’t like me! It’s mathematically proven! They make me feel like I’m in control of my life and my feelings. They give me answers when there are no answers. They are black and white and not even a little bit gray.

Of course, life is not business, even if we are bombarded with 5,000 marketing messages a day. Unfortunately, to get to trust you have to leap. For me, at least, trust = faith. You do it because you feel it. Because you allow yourself the room to get there. Because at some point you let go of the equations and believe, really believe, that no matter what happens, despite your worst fears slinking their way into reality, you’ll be okay.

I’m not being dramatic when I say that I’ve spent the last year of my life preparing for 30. For those of you who are just a wee bit older than I am and think my last statement is ridiculous, don’t worry. I intend to explain myself.

For me, 30 has come to represent two things: (1) official adulthood (i.e., no more excuses for not having your life/shit together), and (2) the shattered image of who I thought I’d be.

#1 is self-explanatory: The 20s are a semi-grace period, a practice round, if you will, for adulthood. Try it out. Sleep around. Work a few jobs. Go back to school. Find your passion. In other words, if you’re 25 and still haven’t settled on a career path or figured out what the hell you’re doing with your life, it’s all good, baby. You have plenty of time! Whereas, if you’re 30, and someone asks you what you do for a living, and you say, “You know, I haven’t figured that out just yet,” you might as well say that you’re a big fat loser living in your parents’ basement with no money and no job prospects. Because that’s what they’ll see.

#2 is a little more complicated. The shitty thing about 30 is that I had an image attached to the number. When I was 15, and I thought about 30-year-old Julie, she was a Grown-Up. Twenty-five-year-old Julie wasn’t really a concern back then. But 30-year-old Julie—man, was she cool. She had a job that she loved, writing a column for a local newspaper. She was married to an awesomely cute man. She lived in a house. And she had a kid, perhaps with another one on the way.

Thirty-year-old Julie didn’t worry about how she’d afford next month’s rent, or whether or not her nine-year-old car would last another year or two without killing her. She certainly wasn’t going out on bad date after bad date, wondering if she’d ever meet the right guy. She wasn’t living alone or doing her own taxes or taking out her own trash; she wasn’t babysitting her friend’s kid on a Saturday night or fishing dead mice out from under her oven; she wasn’t broke or paying for her own health insurance or wondering if her life was ever going to get any easier.

When I hit 29, I realized, quite obviously, that my life was nowhere near where I once thought it would be. What the fuck had I accomplished? How had my choices led me to this? When I toasted my 29th year, I announced, semi-humorously, that if I was still unemployed and single—I was both at the time—when the clock struck 30, I’d put a gun to my head.

After turning 29, I spent the next few months battling a debilitating depression. Partly because I hated my new job, partly because I missed graduate school and all that it represented, and partly because I was mourning the death of an image I’d been holding onto for 15 years.

Assuming that I would be in exactly the same place at 30, I was determined to not only accept my fate, but also feel content with where I was and who I am. It may sound cheesy or new-agey, but I focused all of my energies on the things that I did have: the world’s most amazing friends, good parents and a swell brother who support me no matter what, a close relationship with the smartest, most beautiful baby ever, an apartment I love (in spite of the mice), and the ability, will, and confidence to write.

I learned how to make these things be enough, to fill the holes created by other absences, like a fulfilling day job and a person with whom to share all parts of my life. My life was where it was, and I had finally embraced the fact that, even if it wasn’t what I’d imagined, I was where I was supposed to be.

Then, a funny thing happened: I got laid off from my job. For a brief moment, I panicked. Now I really would be unemployed and single when I turned 30, and everything I’d worked so hard to accomplish would crumble and crash around me.

Oddly enough, that’s not what happened.

Instead, to fill my free time, I started writing again. I got published. I picked up some freelance work. And, best of all, an editor at a magazine I’d written for a few years ago contacted me and asked me to write another article for her.

Other things happened, too. Like, I landed a full-time job in an economy that worsens by the second. And I love it. With regard to my personal life, without revealing too much for fear of jinxing it, I will say that I didn’t spend my birthday weekend alone.

When I think too hard and too long about how my life has changed in the last year, I’ll admit, it scares the crap out of me. As a person who spends so much of her time preparing for the worst-case scenarios, I don’t quite know how to handle the best. On the upside, I also never take a single experience, person, or moment for granted.

So, there you have it: I’m 30 and I’m happy to be here. I’m even a little hopeful. But, more importantly, at this moment, sitting here, writing this, I know with certainty that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.