I turned 29 on July 8. It is a prime number, that cannot be divided into whole numbers. 29 stands between 28 and 30, both of which are divisible by two and orderly.
To some extent, it’s scary. Next year, I will be thirty and entering a new decade. My family was watching a home video from eleven years ago when we drove up to Fort Myers. I was reading a book written by Harry Houdini then and wearing a visor during a beach vacation. We were all so young then, and skinnier.
Turning 29 means that my twenties is truly over, or will be in a year. When Stephen King reached this age, he had already built a book career that rescued his family from the slum life. Two of my siblings became successful doctors and my mom was married and established as a pediatrician. There is a set of high expectations and to get as much writing as done as possible.
I’ve also accomplished more than most people have by this age. Thanks to some lovely mentors and editors, I have a steady writing career, some books under my belt, and a lot of short stories coming out. One was accepted over the weekend, and I’ve edited another for an anthology. My Duolingo also shows that I can handle basic Spanish conversations if they are written, and learning Japanese slowly.
On the other hand, I hope to leave stuff behind, like the constant expectations that people can actually be better than they are. The past four years have been downright disillusioning with the truths that are revealed. I would rather just accept things the way they are and change what is possible to change. There are also little things to toss out, like objects you bought to please people in the workplace that you considered mentors. It feels like a shame to put them in the trash, but you can replace them with objects that you’ll use and cherish.
Ultimately, you can’t stop getting older. What you can choose to do, however, is move forward and mark your accomplishments. I am 29 now, a prime number. And I am not easily divided.