Thirty feels like a small threshold you don’t notice until you’re standing in it—hands wrapped around a glass, the room soft with warm light, and everything glittering just enough to make ordinary moments feel ceremonial.
For this 30th birthday, the bubbles did their job: they slowed time down. The gold streamers behind us caught every flicker and turned it into a kind of weather—shimmering, patient, and a little unreal. Devon and I leaned into that brightness, shoulder to shoulder, holding our drinks the way you hold a quiet wish before you say it out loud.
I love parties most for their small details: the clink of glass, the half-second of eye contact before a toast, the way laughter rises and then settles again. The camera grabs one frame, but the night is really made of movement—people drifting in and out of conversation, music in the background, a thousand tiny celebrations happening at once.
Thirty isn’t a reinvention. It’s more like a new coat pulled on from the laundry room—familiar, worn in, and suddenly meaningful when you realize how many seasons it has already seen.
Here’s to gold light, good company, and the simple kindness of marking time together.
