Why I'm saying goodbye to being good for my 28th birthday

Since we're all friends here ...

Tomorrow I turn 28. But I’ve never felt more out of sorts and confused about who I am and what I want to be.

“Imagine how cool your 12-year-old self would think you are”, a friend said to me recently. I agree, some days I do think how much little Ria would be elated at how we turned out. But mostly, I wonder when I’ll ever start to feel like the accomplished, gorgeous, smart, sexy woman I envisioned I’d be.

My mother was my first and reigning example of what kind of woman I wanted to be. Every morning, she’d turn on the radio, make herself a coffee, wash and blow dry her hair, and perch in her silk dressing gown on a vintage chair that belonged to my Nan while she painted her face for the day.

I’d watch this routine of hers as I slumped at the end of her bed, toast in hand, while Everybody Loves Raymond played on Channel 4. As I sat awkwardly in my school uniform, looking at the outfit she’d laid out to wear to work that day, I remember thinking how excited I was to be a grown-up. I pictured myself in high heels, carrying fancy handbags, and being very busy and important.

I told her I couldn’t wait to grow up and have a job too. She said;

“Just promise me you won’t end up stuck behind a desk and hating it”.

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Finding your thing: a curse or blessing?

The one constant in my life for as long as I can remember has been reading. Stacks of books have followed me wherever I go, from house to house, and I fear my appetite for them will never be satisfied.

For my 7th birthday, my granddad bought me a typewriter and something clicked. I would tap away writing short stories, plays, my thoughts and dreams - it all flowed out. The sound of the keys tapping and the ink hitting the page gave me a sense of calm and accomplishment. I had found my ‘thing’.

But the curse of finding your thing early on is that you get sidetracked. You don’t have to try the other stuff, because you’ve found what you’re good at. I was good at writing, so I focused all my effort on getting better at writing, and then I made it my job. I created a cavern for myself to exist in, picking and sticking to my niche before I’d even considered trying something else.

That’s 21 years of tapping under my belt already, and I still to this day doubt whether or not I’m good at it.

This self-inflicted pressure to stay in my lane runs deep. I’ve been lucky to never hate my birthday - even the one where I got dumped the day before - but as I get older, it’s become my own personal New Year’s Eve. I set goals, compare my progress and always think about how I can become better once the next birthday rolls around.

I am my own harshest critic and put so much pressure on myself to be good that I leave no room to try being bad at something first. I’ve spent my teen and adult years avoiding things I might fail at through fear of embarrassment.

In a beer garden on a brisk Friday night, I told my friends I wanted to stop labelling myself as this girl who doesn’t do things. I want to make an effort to put myself in situations where I could feel uncomfortable and roll with it. Like aversion therapy for my anxious disposition.

Pint in hand and pondering this whilst trying to analyse why I have this innate fear of failure, one of my oldest friends turned to me and said; “You never pursue something you’re not naturally good at. You go after what you can excel in, not what you need to try hard at. That’s why.”

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Flipping the switch on myself

I am sometimes so risk averse, it’s to my detriment. I think of the worst outcome before the best one. This holds me back from enjoying things and keeps me stagnant, which in turn makes my creative brain die a little death sometimes.

Maybe it’s something engrained in my DNA or maybe it’s something to sit on a therapist’s chair to unpack, but the worried voice in my head sometimes takes over to the point it stops me from doing something I actually do want to do. Like a constant back and forth, it feels as if my brain is filling out an internal risk assessment without my permission. It’s exhausting and genuinely, so fucking annoying.

So this year, instead of a goal to be better or improve, I simply want to embrace being bad. Being bad at a hobby, or an activity or failing at something, I’m done avoiding it at the cost of missing out.

I’m letting go of the need to be good for my 28th birthday. I am releasing the shackles I have placed upon myself, in the hopes that the worry in my head will die a little death and let me breathe.

Whilst I still feel like that lost, awkward teenager sitting on my mum’s bed eating toast, I know that I have done far more than I ever imagined could be possible. That in itself is proof that even if I try, crash and burn, I can get back up again.

Being very busy and important it turns out might bring you accolades and pats on the back for doing a good job, but being yourself and letting go of what other people think is what leads you to being happy and content.