My mind unraveled at the airport while I was catching my flight out of Detroit.
I went to cry in peace in a bathroom stall but someone next to me was blaring a true crime podcast. I couldn’t hear myself over the loud and detailed recounting of a knife twisted in some unsuspecting person’s chest. This bathroom didn’t need more grief. I left to find a quieter spot for my feelings and ran into the Air Margaritaville. The plastic palm trees framed an overpriced and underwhelming carefree fantasy at the beverage bar, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. I turned to the nearest empty gate, tempering my leaky eyes with some deep breathing.
Lately, my trips to Michigan have reminded me that I’m aging; that aging is a communal experience; that everyone else is aging with me. As my parents dropped me off at the departures area, I thought about how months will pass in a flash; that our week together was merely a blip; that they too will be older when I return.
And, of course, that next time, I’d turn 30.
I’ve never thought of myself as someone who fallaciously clings to and idolizes my youth, but 30 snuck up on me at the airport, and I couldn’t hide from it. I sat with my face buried in my bag, silently asking myself: “Already? Am I ready?” Time has felt blurry these past few years, and the pandemic’s acceleration to this milestone feels especially cruel. A concurrent, steep career progression has consumed my attention, so I’ve been lost in a forest of meetings and emails. I hadn’t considered that time is up—my twenties are ending. I’m getting older.
I sulked and wondered how my parents did it all. They raised children in a new country, learned a new language, as well as balanced work and life obligations, all by my age. Have I done enough to honor their sacrifices? Thirty years later, has my life filled in the contours of their immigrant dreams?
Maybe I’m digging too deep, too late. Thirty may have surprised me with its big, bold subtext, now sharply in focus, but it’s just another year older, isn’t it? Isn’t this just the natural accretion of the preceding years, like every other birthday? I’ve been growing, getting older this entire time. There’s nothing new about that.
My flight began boarding. Now was not the time to unpack this existential baggage. I needed to get going.
I found my seat and slumped against the window, thinking about my upcoming work training session. I thought about the people I’d meet, how others would perceive me, and the unnecessary gap between their perception and mine. I’m not the young and naive individual I thought I was anymore. Twenty-something is a mismatched label for where and who I am in life now. I’m a distinctly different man than the one who moved away eight years ago, more confident in how I show up in the world and cognizant of my ripples of influence. I’m no longer the baby in the workplace; no longer a starry-eyed idealist.
The dynamism and volatility of my early twenties has settled, and while stability is a boring blessing, it’s a gift I’m fortunate to hold as I’ve aged. My big mental questions are still big, but they’re quieter. I’m trying to make peace with them. Personal growth at this point feels different. The stakes in and consequences of my decisions now feel elevated—past ones feel omnipresent, and the future feels overwhelming in possibility.
Onward. Back to Michigan I go.