Turning 29

Not Where I Thought I'd Be—And That's Perfectly Okay

As I sit here writing this, I'm 29. Just typing that number feels surreal. For so long, 29 sounded like the age when everything would be "figured out"—stable career, maybe a house, a clear path forward, the kind of life I imagined when I was younger and the future felt like a straight line. But life doesn't follow straight lines. It zigzags, it breaks, it rebuilds in ways you never saw coming.

If you'd asked me five years ago where I'd be at 29, I would have painted a very different picture. I thought I'd still be climbing the ladder at the job I once believed was my forever career. I pictured family gatherings in the childhood home that held every memory, weekends at the trailer where I'd spent countless golden summers with friends who felt like extensions of myself. I thought my parents' relationship—the foundation I grew up relying on—would still be intact, and the dad I knew would still be the same person I'd always turned to.

2025 shattered all of that. In what felt like the blink of an eye, I lost almost everything tied to my past. My parents' relationship unraveled. The dad I grew up with changed in ways that left me grieving someone still living. The childhood home was sold, the summer trailer gone—places that weren't just buildings, but pieces of who I was. Some of my closest friends, the ones who shaped my humor, my values, my sense of belonging, drifted or disappeared from my life, or gone forever, unable to reconnect. And then, the hardest blow: my mental illness, which I'd fought for years, finally forced me out of the job I thought defined my future.

It was a season of loss that hit like a storm. I was grieving, not just people and places, but the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be. There were days when getting out of bed felt impossible, when the weight of "not where I should be" threatened to swallow me whole. And yet... here I am at 29, and for the first time in a long time, I'm genuinely happy. Not the shiny, performative kind of happy. The quiet, earned kind. The kind that comes after you've cried through the wreckage and decided to keep going anyway.

In the short span of early 2026, life turned a corner I never expected. I was hired at a national park—a job that feels more like a calling than a paycheck. It's challenging, it's outdoors, it's surrounded by nature that reminds me daily how small my struggles are in the grand scheme. I bought a camper (with a huge assist from my mom, who has been my rock through it all), turning a vehicle into my new mobile home base. And most excitingly, I've started building a real plan for a new chapter in Yellowstone National Park. 

Yellowstone isn't just a destination; it's a symbol of starting over. Wide open spaces, geysers that erupt on their own unpredictable schedule, wildlife that thrives despite harsh winters—it's a place that teaches resilience just by existing. My little camper is cozy, simple, and mine. I will be parked in different spots, under different stars, and every time I wake up to birdsong instead of city noise, I will begin to feel a little more like myself again.

The emotional obstacles I've overcome aren't small. Navigating mental illness while grieving multiple layers of loss takes real courage. Learning to set boundaries, to ask for help, to forgive myself for not having it all together—those are accomplishments bigger than any title or paycheck. 

I'm not where I thought I'd be. And honestly? I'm grateful for that. Because the path I imagined was safe, predictable, and probably would have kept me stuck in versions of myself that no longer fit. The path I'm on now is raw, uncertain, and beautiful. It forced me to confront what matters: connection (even when it's with fewer people), healing, nature, purpose. At 29, I'm proud of what I've survived and what I'm building. I'm proud of showing up for myself when everything else fell away. I'm proud of saying yes to a life that feels authentic, even if it's unconventional.

If you're reading this and you're in your late 20s (or any age, really) feeling behind, lost, or like you've veered off course—know that it's okay. Sometimes the detours are where the real growth happens. Sometimes losing what you thought you needed makes space for what you actually want. I'm not "there" yet. Maybe I never will be. But I'm here, and right now, that's more than enough.

To new beginnings, to Yellowstone sunsets, and to turning 29 with open hands instead of clenched fists.

xoxo,

H