Transitions

Life starts at 30.

And they're right. My life really started to take off once I hit 30.

At 32, I've learned who I value most: my family, a couple of friends who I still make time to see, my health—mental, emotional, physical.

I learned to protect my peace, regulate my emotions—well, I try—and keep my sanity. Young, oversharer, chronically online Jamie would be shocked to know that the Jamie now rarely posts on social media.

She's kept her Instagram private for a while. She doesn't care for likes, views, and comments anymore. She doesn't even post stories. Photos don't pass by anyone's feed now; they're posted directly to her profile. Unless it's a gathering attended by people she cares most about, then she keeps their faces seen. The world deserves to know them. Sometimes she doesn't even take photos of meetups; her phone camera doesn't witness much at this point.

Speaking of attending events, she only sees people she wants—sometimes it's with those who she hasn't seen in so long but usually, late night hotpot or Korean BBQ with her sister, niece, and nephews is enough.

Somewhere along the way, that urgency to post everything faded too. I asked myself: what am I proving to the world? Not that every person who posts is trying to prove something. But I was suddenly questioning my inner self and all her intentions and reasons. It's confusing like a knot—but that's how it started to unravel for me.

It was also around this time that I started buying things I had long wished for. I had shouted loud enough for the universe to turn my heart’s desires into reality. And then, in the stillest irony, I stayed quiet once I finally had them—as if the silence had hidden even the faintest hint of my battle cries. 

And that quietness, both in struggle and in success, became especially important during a phase when I’d finally had enough of my unhealthy habits.

I decided to suddenly stop vaping—cold turkey—after a bout of another lengthy coughing season in October of last year. At first, I just wanted to pause, to feel better, to stop things from getting worse. But one day, I simply woke up and knew I was done. I was tired of the huff and the puff every time I tried to catch my breath. Quitting was the best thing I did for myself.

Not long after, I finally got myself a gym membership. That was after a year of telling people that my personal goal was to be physically healthy. I signed up in November, and the gym opened the following February. So I guess it’s safe to say the end of my vice and the beginning of my now-routine go hand in hand.

But all of those came with a caveat.

The choosing: who to see, who to talk to, what to do—all somehow dwindled down to the reality that I now take time to reply to people. I kept my quiet for so long that the knot started to tighten again, pulled taut by my silence. Now, it’s sometimes so tight I can barely feel what’s on the other end. The bright, sunny light outside is straining on the eyes—and through the knots and tangles, even those who shine their own light no longer look familiar.

Right now, I’m just figuring out how to keep all of this in balance. Some days I lean into the quiet, other days I make space for the people and moments that matter most. I don’t always get it right, but I’ve stopped feeling like I have to. Life doesn’t need to be proven anymore, it just needs to be lived — and I’m finally learning how to do that in a way that feels like me.