I turned 30 last month. It was my first birthday in recent memory I actually planned for. In the past, I usually just lived out my birthday as a normal day, plus a nice lunch. You see, my specific brand of neurodivergence doesn’t pair well with birthday celebrations. I love routine, dislike most social gatherings, and hate the feeling of a spotlight. Birthdays are pretty destabilizing to me, but I actually looked forward to 30.

Of course, I didn’t want to overdo things for this important birthday. So I stayed home with my girlfriend and our bestie. We ordered pizza and hung out. It’s my special day, and I got exactly what I wanted. No gifts necessary and NO SINGING.

Thirty means a lot to me. Three is my favorite number, and increments of 10 are hot. Most importantly, 30 is the birthday I never expected to reach. I used to be sure I’d be dead by my own hand before this. A third decade was barely possible to conceptualize in my adolescent depression. It bore a kind of absurdity next to the pressing despair I was living in. Depression and suicidality conditioned me to live no further than the present moment, because having a future seemed unrealistic.

This previous decade showed me how wrong that was and gave me the chance to rectify it. I spent my twenties finding my footing in the world. This would have been difficult on its own, but my twenties marked my departure from an abusive childhood environment. My healing could only begin in earnest after I was separated from the source of this damage.

There’s… so much to untangle about the first 20 years of my life and what happened to me. I’ll never be done untangling it, but I’ve already made so much progress. This birthday marked a pause to appreciate my successes. Young adulthood has been stint after stint of planning and working toward my next goal. There’s always been something to push for in the future or something to unfuck from the past. Turning 30 forced me to confront the progress I’ve made.

My previous decade was periodically stormy but always upward-facing. I developed a respiratory disability, endured The Pandemic, transitioned, and met some truly magnificent people. I tried to keep things upward-facing, even if I was flat on my ass trying to cope.

None of it was planned, and I don’t know how my younger self would react. I thought that by this age, I’d be married with kids. I thought I’d be a man. I craved an office job even though my autism could never sustain a 9-to-5. Instead, I began my 30th year with a return to online sex work. It’s my sixth year of a loving and stable relationship, but no marriage or kids. There’s a girl in the mirror and a plush cat on my lap. I eat a balanced diet (courtesy of my dear girlfriend). It’s a stranger life than the one I envisioned, but it’s the one I made, and I welcome it. Each day brings a new oddity, challenge, and comfort.

Surviving suicidality left something indelible on me. On the one hand, every day is a gift — even the bad ones. I’m ready to accept every day’s necessities and novelties without dread or despair. On the other hand, I walk alongside my trauma every day. I’m always at work to ensure it never outpaces me. I’ve confronted it with grand gestures and big steps, for sure. All the therapy, tearful realizations, and reparenting are present to show for it. But there’s healing in the small places, too: being surrounded by people who tell me they love me, finding someone who reassures me when I err instead of berating me, sleeping without fear.

When it came to how to celebrated my 30th, I had every choice under the sun. I decided on hanging out with exactly two people at home with a pizza delivery. That simple event was healing. It was the culmination of what I’ve fought for since childhood: peace, comfort, and quietude. I’ve finally earned my normalcy, and I can open my next decade knowing I’m not fighting for safety anymore, but I can work on anchoring it closely.

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