In which I struggle to find a title, but we can generally call it self reflection

Something happened when you turn thirty. Or maybe I should say, when I  turn thirty.

And this thing is no ordinary thing.

The last time this happened was when I turned twenty one. I described it at the time as "I stopped caring". About a lot of things. I never knew I was quite the worrier. I swear it's not just about being an adult, or anything along those lines. In fact, the legal age here in the land of oz is eighteen. When I turned eighteen, well, it wasn't as exciting as I had hoped it to be.

Look, don't get me wrong ok. The celebration was nice, some of my friends rocked up and I am forever grateful. The rest of the people that rocked up was a combination of err.. let's just say other people. People that I may not recognise on the street today or tomorrow. Let's just leave it at that. But that's not the point. The point is that there was hardly any emotional growth on my part.

That growth started happening at twenty one. Dare I say this out loud: I only started liking myself at twenty one. I swear this has nothing to do with my losing weight and slimming down, then again, I would not be so quick in writing that achievement off. It probably has something to do with wrapping up an honours thesis and then graduating with honours. Oh those prestigious two words. I could have settled with "with distinction" but hey, what's one year of your life in exchange for "with honours". Yeap, I thought so.

I received the news of completing my PhD exactly a week before I turn twenty five. I rushed off from work to catch my PhD supervisor who kindly waited for me to rock up so that he could deliver the news in person. I love that man. That was a pretty awesome day. I mean, really, this day beats graduation day any day. In fact, graduation was ... errr... graduation. Being the second time around, Dad was not very enthusiastic. I don't blame him. I was not very enthusiastic myself. I think it was because my then-boyfriend brought me flowers.

So. When you're like twenty five and you got that one two syllables two letters word in front of your name, that is like, uhm, well, FRIKKIN AWESOME, but mostly ... scary.

Truth be told, if I were to live my life again, I would do it differently. This is not to say I regret my life and how I turn out bla bla bla, for fuck's sake, can I not choose to have different experiences? What is the whole point of second chances if you do exactly the same shit but expecting a different outcome?

I spent the first few years of being a doctor feeling like I was too young to be one. I don't doubt my skills but I was made painfully aware of my lack of experience, something that comes with being young, and really, at the time, was not something that I could change instantaneously. I mean, it is not like I could enrol in the school of experience and then graduate a year later with experience. There is no remedy to this other than well, living life yourself. And hopefully gain some experience in the process.

Having gone through all of that, I despise people who fault others for their lack of experience. It is like these people forget what it feels like being inexperienced because you are young. I have not come across anyone who is both young and experienced.

Turning thirty was the first time that I truly reflect on what my life has been all about and the person that I wanted to become. I guess it only took me almost thirty years to realise that I haven't quite asked myself this question to be able to answer it truthfully. It helps that I have someone who asked me to marry him at this stage because for the first time in my life, I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, there is something more to life.

A substantial part of turning thirty is overcoming this thing called fear. Of course when you actually turn thirty, it's not like you break free and you fly without fear. It's more like, okay, I am thirty and I am okay. I am actually more than okay. I mean, I am no Einstein, but I am not a junkie on the street either. So, I can't be that bad, right?



The thing is this: whether it's good or bad, it really is up to you.

At some point in the not too distant past, I stumbled upon a (real life) discussion about the moments that define you. In an era whereby our successes are often blown out of proportion (and thus modesty is fast to become a rare virtue), it is so easy to define someone by the things that they have achieved and how long it takes them to achieve them. To a certain degree, I believe that this is somewhat responsible for the five year goal question - what do you hope to be in five years time? More often than not, if we were to be completely honest with ourselves, the answer is this: I don't really know just yet. But if we were to say that, we are guaranteed to be deemed as clueless and unfocused, in addition to being unambitious. Sometimes, honesty is not the best policy.

I know how hard it is to answer the five year question, because there was a period of time during which I had to answer that question over and over and over again. Practice often makes perfect, or at least, almost perfect. You don't get used to being asked the question, given that, if you think about it, such question is incredibly confronting in nature. Its answer requires a lot of thoughts and once you've decided on the goals that you'd like to achieve in five years time, you actually have to put in the effort to achieve them. And the next thing you know, five years have gone by and you ask yourself this question: have I achieved what I wanted to achieve in the past five years.

At this point, it may sound like I am this over-achiever individual who has a tendency of over-analysing things. And perhaps it is true that I am, given that my friend recently told me to stop thinking about things, and instead, relax and go with the flow. It is no coincidence that every time I speak with her, I get the same advice over and over again, and it baffles me that she is not sick of giving me the same advice (motherhood may give you a higher patience quota). I am on the thinking camp, and I need to remind myself, that in addition to thinking, I need to ... live. A thinking life is ... useless unless you live it.

Recently I was asked to write a short bio on myself, which a seemingly simple exercise which required me to give a summary of what I've done in the past ten years. My resume is unconventional (imagine a (a)typical Gen-Y resume). And for the first time in my life, I realise that I quite like it. It is not just a summary of what I've achieved and where I've been, it is also very much me.

Throughout our lives, we have report cards to tell us what we've achieved and where we can improve. And then suddenly, there is hardly any report card to track our progress; but we have to start writing our own, this document called the CV, resume or whatever you want to call it. You have a lot more control than you think. If you are ever at a loss as to who you are, and what you would like to become in five years time, go back to this document and remember where you've been, and see if you like the person you've become.

Whatever it is you choose to do, just make sure that you'll like who you've become in five years time.

Ok, that was really long. You're still here? Congratulations! Any thoughts you'd like to share, please head over to Twitter. If you're in the mood for something that will make you smile, then head over to my instagram (warning: you may end up leaving hungry). Otherwise, head over to my other blog, whereby I talk about less intense stuff like fashion and shopping. Thank you for reading. I promise I will not write something so long in future! And yes, I've been told that I need to be more concise.