Thirty is a funny kind of milestone. It doesn’t arrive with a drumroll so much as a quiet click—like a door latching behind you—and suddenly you’re standing in a room that feels both familiar and newly lit.
This one was spent with the original CM team, gathered close beneath big gold balloon letters that spelled out a simple, bright permission to celebrate. Drinks in hand, we held still for a moment in front of a wall of books, the background hum of a home around us—shelves, frames, small evidence of everyday life. The photo catches that in-between feeling: polished enough to mark the occasion, relaxed enough to be real.
I keep thinking about how time folds people together. Work becomes friendship without anyone making an announcement. You look up and realize you’ve collected a small history—shared late nights, inside jokes, the steady rhythm of showing up. It’s not loud, but it lasts.
If birthdays are supposed to measure anything, I hope it’s this: the warmth of familiar faces, the comfort of being known, and the kind of joy that doesn’t need much more than a room, a few friends, and a little gold light bouncing around.
