Confession of a 33-Year-Old Woman: I’m Not Where I Thought I’d Be, And Maybe That’s Okay
I’m 33 years old. And if you asked me at 23 where I thought I’d be by now, I would have painted you a picture that looked nothing like this.
I would have told you I’d be married—probably with two kids, living in a cozy home with a man who made me feel safe and seen. I would have imagined a stable career, weekend brunches, a little chaos but mostly love. I would’ve said I’d “have it together.”
But here I am.
Single. Renting a one-bedroom apartment. No kids. A career that looks good on paper but eats away at me more often than it inspires me. And some days, I feel like I’m just floating—untethered and unsure, smiling through the “you’re still young!” pep talks while secretly wondering if I’ve already missed the boat.
I scroll through Instagram and see baby announcements, honeymoon photos, mortgage selfies, and gender reveals. Sometimes I’m genuinely happy for them. Other times, it feels like I’m watching a life I was supposed to be living—like I got off at the wrong stop, and the train doesn’t come back around.
I’ve been in love. Deep, all-consuming, borderline-destructive love. The kind that makes you lose yourself and call it passion. The kind that feels like home until it doesn’t. I’ve had my heart broken so profoundly I forgot who I was without him. And I’ve hurt people too—ghosted good men because I wasn’t ready, or worse, because I wanted to be cruel. I wish I could say I’ve always been kind. I haven’t.
I’ve made questionable decisions—financial, sexual, emotional. I’ve stayed in rooms I should’ve left and walked away from people I should’ve fought harder for. I’ve lied. I’ve performed versions of myself just to be loved. I’ve said “I’m fine” when I was anything but, because women are taught that breaking down is unbecoming.
At 33, I’m learning to be honest. With others, sure—but mostly with myself. That maybe success doesn’t look like the milestones I thought I needed. That wholeness can exist even without a ring, a baby, or a corner office.
I’m slowly making peace with being in-between.
I’m learning to love my body, not for how close it is to “perfect,” but for how much it’s carried me through. I’m giving up on perfection altogether, actually. It’s exhausting. I want joy, not just checkboxes.
I’m unlearning. Relearning. Forgiving. Some days I’m soft, glowing with hope. Some days I’m brittle, doubting everything. But I’ve stopped pretending I need to be one thing.
Maybe this decade isn’t about achievement or arrival. Maybe it’s about reclamation. Maybe it’s about saying, “I may not be where I thought I’d be, but I’m still becoming—and that counts for something.”
I don’t have it all figured out. But I have myself. And for now, that’s enough.
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