Goodbye 20s, Hello 30s
In October, I’m turning 30, the same week I’m launching my business. It feels poetic, as if I'm stepping into a new way of being. I’m leaving behind my 20s and everything that came with them.
Back in 2014, I was just a child. I had graduated high school two years earlier and was in the middle of my bachelors degree. I still believed that what I was being taught was the truth.
My 20s were filled with a whirlwind of experiences: getting engaged to my ex, traveling, meeting my person, moving out, graduating from university (a few too many times), starting my teaching career, surviving COVID (fucking COVID), falling pregnant, giving birth, meeting my daughter, battling depression, finding myself again, moving house countless times, and finally settling into my microhome with the loves of my life.
What a beautiful decade it was—a time of fully transitioning from childhood to adulthood. It was a period rich in life experience, dense and complex and filled with so much emotion and growth.
I entered my 20s burdened by the insecurities of my teenage years, feeling lost in our complex world. It was in my early 20s that I first experimented with psychedelics and had my mind completely blown open. I began to see what propaganda looked like and how it operated within our education system. I was 90% through my master’s degree when I realised I’d swallowed a whole load of shit. I had been sold a degree full of half-truths and disguised lies, designed to shape my worldview to support our unjust system.
It’s ironic even after realising I’d been lied to for five years straight, I still felt unable to step out of the system. So, I began my third and final degree, another program aimed at moulding my mind into a specific, government-regulated machine. I guess I was fortunate; I finished my teaching degree without buying into their narrative entirely. I knew full well I wasn’t going to be a typical teacher. I wasn’t going to blindly follow their curriculum.
Despite this awareness, I still thought I’d be a teacher. I thought I’d outlast the notorious five-year burnout that sees an estimated 30-50% of teachers quit.
Yet here I am, and I lasted less than two years. In my defense, I wanted to teach. I mean, I never wanted to send my child into the system, but I still loved my job. I loved my school, my principal, my colleagues, and I enjoyed going to work. But they didn’t want me to teach; they weeded me out when I refused to go along with their COVID agenda. The same people I loved turned against me because I wouldn’t wear a mask or receive their shot.
I grieved. I really did. I cried when I heard the news that they mandated it. I kept crying, on and off, for weeks. When they finally said I could work again, I was in my postpartum stage, barely surviving. Eventually, I tried to return. I found alternative care for Grace, but it was complicated and expensive because we refused to blindly comply with government rules, so my child can’t go to an affordable daycare.
I see this as both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I get to be her primary carer and never have to send her into an institution that I so wholeheartedly disagree with. But it's also a curse because I adore my days away from her. I get to work, be productive, and focus on my goals without changing nappies or dealing with tantrums. Once a week or once a fortnight, I have these days, and without a doubt, they’re restorative.
Yet, despite my setbacks, failings, and feelings of inadequacy, here I am, on the eve of launching my art classes, finally starting something I believe in—something I feel I could be good at. I’m becoming an art teacher, a role I would lovingly embrace, one that aligns with my personality and my philosophy on education. In truth, I don’t feel good enough; I don’t feel like I deserve the title of Art Teacher. But unlike the beginning of my 20s, when I’d smoke a joint and move on, failing to finish what I started, I’m persisting. I don’t have all the answers, I won’t have the perfect supplies, and I’m scared no one will turn up or that we won’t accomplish what I envision. But I’m still diving in, jumping into the possibility that everything might work out, trusting in the truth I learned that night in my early 20s: that I am looked after and cared for, that God is on my side, working on my behalf to help me prosper and grow, to change lives and step into the light of who I’m meant to be.
Because that’s what life is—or at least could be for those brave enough to trust—an experience of co-creating with the divine, of seeing beyond the barriers of our material world and diving into the abyss of truth and eternal potential. It’s understanding that you’re both yourself and the stars, that you’re both here and there. It’s about finding your truth and holding onto it, despite the pain and struggles of humanity’s existence.
It’s trust—life’s trust—in yourself and in everyone else.
So, here’s to my 20s. Even in the darkness, it was a blessing. Even when I couldn’t see the truth, I was being guided. Organic Edu is a perfect example of this; it’s a brand and business I crafted when I was deep in postpartum depression, barely functioning, a completely lost soul. I couldn’t see the end goal; I had no real plan. I was grasping at the invisible and thought, fuck it, let’s at least try.
So here’s to my 30s, knowing this will take me somewhere, knowing it’s important that I start, and that I am capable, I am worthy, and I will get there—we all will.
