Journaling at the Cusp and in the Middle

03/07/2026

It's my last Saturday as a thirty-three-year-old, and I woke up at five-thirty with no alarm. The day before the clocks spring forward, the morning glow that filled my room gifted me thirty minutes of doom-scrolling in bed before my wake-up focus controls locked me out of social media at six. Awake with nothing to scroll, I checked the weather and realized that, technically, the sun wouldn’t rise for another nine minutes.

I hopped out of bed, scurried to the kitchen to turn on my electric kettle, and wrapped myself in my grandmother’s fur. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey tea and went outside to watch the sunrise. Or feel it rise, perhaps. The sky was overcast, a muted monotone that grew subtly more backlit as I sipped my tea and strolled around the block.

The birds are back in New England. I haven’t seen many, but after months of not noticing they were gone, I heard them last weekend, chattering loudly amongst themselves in any tree full enough in early March to offer them shelter. But this morning I heard almost nothing but them. 

Six o’clock on a Saturday morning is a world away from seven. By seven, there’s a run club meeting in the park, and dozens of dogs are out taking their owners for walks. By seven, the tire shop, yoga studio, and cafes are all open. But at six, on a Saturday in early March, it’s just the birds and me. And the drip, drip, dripping.

There may be clouds somewhere beyond the fog, but the droplets sliding off tree branches and the water flowing through the gutters of every house on the block fell from clouds that blew by weeks ago. We’re in the first days of our first false spring. It’s been a decade since I’ve experienced it firsthand, but this is the annual preview of the warmth and sunshine that will make any late March or early April snowstorms all the more painful. But for now, somewhere beyond the gray, the warmth of the sun is fighting its way back to us, melting the white, and black, and yellow snow that has blanketed the city for weeks. 

I walked around the block and spent a few minutes sipping my tea in a park, gazing at the greyed-out sky, and listening to the birds and the drip, drip, dripping. 

03/09/2026

Thirty-three was pivotal. Transformational. The Jesus year.

I got into Harvard the day after my thirty-third birthday, and in the months that followed, everything changed. Everything. In almost every way that you can measure, my life is different than it was this time last year. Thirty-three left its mark. But what is thirty-four?

I expect thirty-four to be a year of quiet becoming.

As a thirty-four-year-old, I will move a year ahead in my studies, but I will earn no degree. I will apply to the next steps, but I probably won’t hear back until I’m thirty-five. I will write and write and write some more. I will keep getting stronger, and braver, and more vulnerable in my art. I will grow, as I always do, but in so many ways, my thirty-fifth birthday will look like this one did. Days before spring break, mid-term papers looming, warmer weather breaking through. 

03/10/2026

I turned thirty-four-years-old yesterday, and I’ve got to say, that feels entirely too old.

I keep thinking about how thirty-four is, undeniably, in the middle portion of my life; at least if we divide it into thirds. A beginning. A middle. An end. I don’t intend to live beyond 100, and even if I live healthily and joyfully to ninety-nine, as I have always planned, the first third of my living is fully behind me now. I am in the middle.

Or maybe my mistake is dividing life into thirds. Quarters don’t work. Fifths?

 0-20: the early years
21-40: the young years
41-60: the middle years
61-80: the mature years
81-100: the lucky years

Okay, fifths feel right. More accurate and less terrifying. Maybe I’m not in the middle yet.