On turning 30.

I turned 30 on October 28th, a day that I had admittedly been dreading for months.

It’s not that I have anything against this particular age; quite the opposite—30 is the ideal age in theory. Having rounded a corner and left behind the lonely confusion that rules our 20s, the 30-something woman is evolved and self-realized, clear about what she wants in life and not willing to settle for less. She speaks her mind without fear of judgment, has a morning routine she swears by (complete with journaling and yoga), and knows how to fix her hair so that it frames her face just right.

Don’t ask me why, but I’m picturing Elizabeth James as I type this—aka the coolest movie mom to ever exist—who, if we’re being precise, was actually 35 years old. (Maybe there’s hope for me yet?) Blame Hollywood, but like a young Jenna Rink, I too imagined that by the time I reached this pivotal decade, I’d be the walking embodiment of the iconic phrase “thirty, flirty, and thriving.”

Well, okay, maybe not the walking embodiment. (My unrealistic expectations are eye-roll inducing, y’all.) But I did think I’d at least have my shit together. And even that, my friends, is rare.

Instead of skinny jeans and manicured nails, I’m rocking greasy hair and spit-up stained sweatshirts. Mapping out my days in my once carefully organized agenda used to be habitual; now, I know better than to bother to make plans at all. My meals mainly consist of beef sticks and protein bars (eaten in five-minute increments between chores), and the last time I completed a proper workout was before Ayla was born. I still have not figured out how to style my hair to my liking.

That said, I was simply not ready to hit the big 3-0 on that monumental day in October. The pressure to finally reach my full potential was staring me in the face as I sat across from my husband in a fancy restaurant (for Frisco), sipping on my celebratory glass of wine and pretending for one night to be as put together as the girls I follow on social media.

Welcome to your thirties, my anxiety chimed in, the age at which you no longer have an excuse.

Maybe you wouldn’t even be able to tell from the outside looking in that I am a complete wreck ninety percent of the time. After all, I’ve got the cute husband and the starter house in the ‘burbs and the work-from-home job that I love. I’ve got the family I’ve always imagined, enough money to live comfortably, and even a bit of travel occasionally thrown in the mix. As my best friend recently reminded me, I’m living the life I once prayed desperately for.

So why does it seem like I’m stuck in survival mode?

Parenting two littles is a blessed and worthy existence, no doubt, but it’s also an extremely challenging one—hands down the hardest stage I’ve found myself in thus far—and I often wonder if I’m going about it all wrong. I see the seasoned mamas with their pristinely made-up faces, successful side hustles, active gym memberships, and homeschooled children; I note the effortless grace with which they interact with their surroundings, and I think, that ain’t me. That will never be me.

Here’s the thing: I’m not writing to complain about my (very comfy) circumstances, but rather to get off my chest how, more days than not, it feels like I’m squandering them. Where is the cool confidence and can-do attitude that was supposed to have sprung forth from the core of my motherly being by now? I’m 30 years old and still waiting on that calm, collected woman to show up and show me what it looks like to thrive.

In our conversation on motherhood and its many challenges, the same friend had me questioning how I define that word. Because if “perfection” or “balance” was what I was striving for, chances are, I’d be striving for a long time. But what if I altered my idea of success to be less about having it all—a tidy home, a closet full of matching Lululemon sets, a continuous thread of Hallmark moments—and more about mindset? What if I could somehow learn to find beauty in the mess, peace in the chaos, and joy in the journey?

I’d be genuinely happy, for starters. At the end of the day, isn’t that what I really want? To lead a peaceful, dare I say spirited, existence at 30, 40, 50—not only for my own sake, but for my family’s as well? But getting there, becoming that, well, there’s the rub.

Scrolling through Instagram on Sunday evening, in one of my futile attempts at distraction, I happened upon @hannaoliviaway’s post on contentment. In the heartfelt caption, she described her life with kids as “wild and messy,” a reality she once regarded as both unfulfilling and exhausting: “I truly felt hopeless…like I was massively unprepared for my job as a mother, like I had messed up and was too tired to try to do anything differently.”

Yeah, girl, I feel ya.

But she says that by making small changes that led to big changes over time—in essence, by giving up the comparison game, releasing her expectations, and sharpening her focus on what matters—her eyes were opened to all of the good surrounding her. With the help of prayer, she began to take pride in her job as a wife and mother, despite its daily hardships, and to see it for what it truly was: the realization of her biggest dream.

Of course, mindset shifts like this don’t happen overnight. It can take months of consciously and consistently reshaping your thoughts before a mentality that’s different than your default puts down roots. Like with anything else, practice is key. And rather than waiting for that calm and collected version of myself to just appear out of thin air, I’d have much better odds of meeting her in the mirror someday if I actually started practicing. In the meantime, I should probably cut her some slack. Growth, it turns out, requires an abundance of grace.

So, here’s what I know to be true: The phase of life I find myself in at 30 is hard. But doing hard things doesn’t have to be miserable, and thriving in this phase doesn’t have to mean mastering it. I can simply appreciate where I am right now, give it my all, and let go of the rest.