My friend Scotia and I have known each other since we were two years old. Two. We met at Little Lions Daycare—an elite establishment for toddlers with sticky hands and zero emotional regulation—and became instant best friends. The kind of friendship that forms before you know how to spell your name but somehow lasts long enough to watch each other grow into full, complicated adults. 

We’ve been tethered ever since. An invisible string, unbreakable. She’s one of my people. One of the great joys of my life. 

So, when Scotia turned 30, naturally, her brother Bryson and I decided this milestone deserved a proper send-off. Not a casual dinner. Not a “happy birthday” text. No. We threw her a party themed “Death to Her 20’s.” Because if you’re going to age, you might as well do it dramatically. 

We dressed in black. There were candles lit. Funeral sandwiches. Pickle trays. Fruit (for balance). Cake (for sanity). We gathered not to mourn, but to honor the end of a decade and the rebirth of a new one. A decade that shaped her. A decade that shaped us. 

We laughed. We ate. We drank. We reflected on our collective love of Scotia—each of us a different puzzle piece that somehow fits into the anatomy of who she is. Friends from different chapters, different seasons, all orbiting the same magnetic heart. 

And then came my favorite part of the night: the eulogies. Each of us took turns reading a eulogy to Scotia’s 20’s. Stories were shared. Laughter echoed louder than tears. Tears came anyway—because our hearts were full. We laughed again because, honestly, being funny is kind of our coping mechanism. 

But the moment that cracked the room wide open was when Scotia read her own. It wasn’t a eulogy. It was a love letter. 

A thank-you note wrapped in humor and grace to the woman she was and the woman she became in her 20’s. To the girl who didn’t take life too seriously. Who was fierce and fiery. Who grabbed life with both hands and decided she’d write her own rules—even when they didn’t make sense to anyone else. 

She honored the mess. The magic. The mistakes. The becoming. 

There was more crying. More laughing. And that quiet realization settling in again—how lucky we are to be wrapped in each other’s love. To have our people. Our tribe. Our chosen family. Whatever name you give it, it’s everything. 

As someone who also has 30 looming over her head like a dark little cloud of existential dread, Scotia gave me an unexpected gift that night.  

She reminded me that aging is a privilege. 

Aging is a passing down of wisdom—from the version of you who tried, failed, learned, and loved anyway. It’s a love letter to yourself. A thank-you to the girl in her 20’s for the lessons she taught herself to prepare for her 30’s. 

It’s permission to be excited. To be eager. To welcome the next decade of love, laughter, joy, pain, sorrow, and boldness. A decade without a crystal ball—but with endless roads branching into possibility. 

And the women in the room who grabbed the torch of 30 before we did, and charged at life without fear, or appearing that way at least, showed us the journey ahead is truly a beautiful, and exciting next chapter to look forward to.  

So, to my friends who fear the next birthday. The next chapter. The next decade. Embrace aging. The beauty of it. The wisdom it brings. The deeper love. The clearer boundaries. The confidence to say “no” without apologizing. 

And hopefully—hopefully—a little more money, because wow, that girl in her 20’s did not know how to save like the girl in her late 20’s finally learned to. 

Here’s to getting older. 

Here’s to growing. 

Here’s to loving who we were—and being wildly excited about who we’re becoming.