Birthdays & Burdens

On becoming a thirty-something.

Do you remember where you were when you first saw 2005’s Pride and Prejudice? I was at a matinee showing at the Hermitage Cinema 8 with my mom: 11 years old and awakening to the dawn of my (still-enduring) love for all things Jane Austen. I was enchanted by the soundtrack, the sweeping scenery, and of course, Mr. Darcy. I was also, in equal measure, repulsed by the movie’s depiction of the constraints of courtship culture, particularly in its biggest advocate: Mr. Collins.

I shared Elizabeth Bennett’s indignance towards Mr. Collins, and shuddered at the scene when her best friend, Charlotte Lucas, tells her that she has done what Lizzie could not: accept Mr. Collins’ proposal. At the age of 11, I felt unable to comprehend and accept the reasons as to why Charlotte felt compelled to couple up with a man who is the definition of cringe. 

It is 19 years later, and I am days away from turning 30 years old. I am three years older than Charolette Lucas was when she delivered the following lines that are committed to my memory, never to be parted: 

“I’m 27 years old. I’ve no money and no prospects. I’m already a burden to my parents. And I’m frightened. So don’t judge me, Lizzie. Don’t you dare judge me.”

As I’ve gotten older and rewatched Pride and Prejudice, I don’t feel the same indignance towards Charlotte as I did when I was 11. Now, I have found myself relating to Charlotte much more than I’d care to admit. I’ve realized I spent many years judging her, looking down on her, and thinking of her as a casualty of the patriarchy. That was, until, I found Charlotte’s words slipping from my chapped lips one snowy January morning.

I was 29 years old, loitering in a parking lot, having the worst panic attack of my life. Frozen by fear and uncertain of what to do next, I picked up my phone to call my mom. As I looked down at my phone, the voice in my head antagonized me. “You’re almost 30. Don’t burden her with this. Get a grip,” my inner dialogue quipped. “Shouldn’t you have someone else to call?” the voice continued.

I called anyway.

On the other end of my teary, terrified phone call, was my mom — calm, collected, and kind. She listened and comforted me, her words warming me from my frozen state of anxiety. “I’m glad you called,” she assured me. “I’m your mom. I’m happy to be here. Well, I’m not happy this is happening to you. But I’m happy to support you.”

I wanted to be the person who would gracefully age, who wouldn’t be anything but happy to begin a new decade of life. But I have to confess: at many points in this last year of my twenties, I’ve felt just like Charlotte Lucas. There have been times throughout my late twenties that I’ve found myself reciting her same monologue, sometimes to myself, and sometimes to others. It can be frightening to be at this age and stage of my life without having achieved certain milestones. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I, too, sometimes worry that I am a burden to my parents. (Don’t worry, we’re talking about it in therapy!) While Charlotte tells Lizzie, “Don’t you dare judge me,” I could probably look in a mirror and tell myself the same.

And so I’ve been trying to do that. 

Lately, I’ve been trying something new: speaking to myself as a friend. On days when my body image is distorted, I look in the mirror and say, “But look at what she has helped us do and learn.” On days when my inner monologue is less than kind, I reply, “You do not get to speak to her with those words.” On days when I feel like I'm falling behind, I curiously ask, “What if she’s right where she’s supposed to be?”

In moments when I feel disconnected from myself, I revisit an old photograph of my mom and me, and it helps me write these words: “Do you ever stop and think that your heartbeat made your mother smile with tears in her eyes as she sat on that crinkly paper in the doctor’s office?” I let myself cry at those words and others, because God is helping me remember that there is redemption in tears. 

A few weeks ago, I was listening to an audiobook that I thought might be helpful for my work. In it, the author was talking about the importance of personal development as a professional, and said this:

“Each of us has to wake up in the morning and give people a return on the time, energy, and money they entrust to us. This is the secret to success. If you want to succeed in work, love, friendship, and life, give the people around you a great return on whatever it is they invest in you.”

Hearing these words felt like a moment that could’ve cut me to the core. After all, they were said by Donald Miller, a Christian whose books I loved reading in my teen and early young adult years. Don has since made a strong pivot to become a highly successful businessman, which I suppose is fine but honestly kind of gives me the ick (like Mr. Collins). But when I heard those words spoken out loud in my car, I paused the audio and out loud said, “No.” 

No.

This year I have not felt like a good return on anyone’s investment. In fact, I have felt like a sinking ship. The final months twenties have been some of the hardest and most humbling months of my life. When a stress fracture in my back struck me with debilitating pain, I was forced into the quietest and most inactive state I’ve lived through since I learned to crawl. I had to ask for help for people to sign up to walk my dog for four months, I had to ask for a comfier chair, I had to restart therapy, I had to cry on planes and in parking lots and in waiting rooms and on the couch of my brother’s house in California. I have felt burdened and felt like a burden, but time after time, when I ask if I am, I am met with an answer: “No.” And in this no, I have been extended kindness and care, compassion and comedy, grace and mercy. This is the secret to success life.

I’ve been a very independent person for much of my life, but something about this last year has changed me—even broken me. After 29 years, maybe I’m finally learning that it’s not actually better to able to function independently from others than it is to be humbled and helped by a dependence on others. These last few months, I’ve been shown by others and begun to learn for myself that I’m not my burdens and I am not a burden.

I’ve felt a weight lift off my shoulders to be helped and heard and taken care of. In the last year of my twenties, I guess you could say that I have been given a 30th birthday gift. And that gift was this: to experience moments and recover memories that have reminded me that I am not alone, that the voice in my head isn’t always the best or most truthful companion, that I have time.

I’m 30 years old. I’ve got some money and uncertain prospects. I’m learning that I’m not a burden to my parents, to my friends, to God. And while some days I’m frightened, I’m learning not to judge myself for that.

The Lord has set my feet in a spacious place.