Sometimes, our disappointment with love begins not with our first romantic heartbreak but with our parents. Why? Because the first example of love we have when we come into this world is the love of our parents, and that can be either really good or really not good. 

Take me higher, God. 

That one statement is a prayer He taught me to pray about ten years ago.

When it comes to seasons shifting—old things passing on and new things coming—there are two types of people: either 1) those running toward the new and throwing off the old without a second glance, or 2) those clinging to the old, crying, already nostalgic about how much they’ll miss it.

I love our country. I really do.

I don’t know if it’s because of the U.S.A. flag shower curtain my mom put in my bathroom when I was a kid. Or because of Jump5’s 2001 rendition of “God Bless the U.S.A.” that I listened to on repeat. I don’t know if it’s because of the numerous American Girl stories I read, which made me a real history buff by the time I was 10. Or maybe it was the kids’ show on PBS about the Revolutionary War.

I don’t know about you, but for me, the phrase “new beginnings” brings a warm feeling inside, like snuggling up by a fire in a cozy blanket and fuzzy socks. Or it ushers in a sense of adventure, like the first day of a job you’ve been dreaming about for years, your energy and expectations high, your hope unmarred. 

Two years ago, I turned thirty, and in the months leading up to my birthday, I STRU-GGLED. My thirties loomed before me, mocking me with all the dreams I hadn’t seen fulfilled in my twenties. I hadn’t published a book yet. I wasn’t a professional working actress. My husband and I were renting a room from my mom. I was not where I imagined I would be 29 going on 30.