As we grow older, birthdays begin to take on a different kind of meaning. Today, on my 32nd birthday, I find myself reflecting—not in a dramatic, “new year, new me” way, but with a quiet curiosity. Somehow, I’ve arrived at an age that feels oddly familiar.

It’s not the giddy thrill of turning thirteen or the rebellious buzz of twenty-one. There’s no official rite of passage for 32—unless you count the moment you realize you relate more to the TV moms than their teenage daughters. And yet, this birthday feels significant.

Maybe that’s because, for some of my favorite on-screen women, 32 was just the beginning. Lorelai Gilmore: coffee-fueled, fast-talking, fiercely independent. Bridget Jones: delightfully chaotic, deeply self-aware, and forever relatable. Carrie Bradshaw: lovably neurotic, perpetually overdressed, and emotionally complex. What do they all have in common?

For us—the viewers—their stories start at 32. And in true Carrie Bradshaw fashion, it got me wondering: is 32 the perfect age to begin again?

That question lingered as I thought about my own life—what it means to be 32, and what this next chapter might hold. I’m only the person I am today because of the lessons I’ve carried from the chapters before. Those experiences have shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately prepared me to face new—if strangely familiar—moments with more clarity and grace. With each passing month, I keep growing—turning the page, writing the next scene, and bringing the wisdom of the past into whatever comes next.

Of course, not every chapter has gone the way I imagined. I once believed I knew exactly how my story would unfold—what degree I’d earn, what title I’d carry, what kind of life I’d build. But sometimes, life rewrites the script. It’s natural to wonder if it was all worth it, if it was a mistake to put yourself out there. But now, with some distance from those painful yet necessary experiences, I wouldn’t change a thing. Those chapters were how I was meant to learn.

Letting go of that version of my future wasn’t easy. It felt like closing a door I had worked hard to open. But in doing so, I found something even more valuable than the plan I had: the freedom to imagine a new one.

That’s the thing about 32. It’s not shiny and new, but it’s solid. It’s the age when the wide-eyed ambition of your early twenties begins to merge with the hard-won clarity that only experience can bring. You still carry the energy of youth—but life has humbled you just enough to make that energy intentional. Focused.

Maybe that’s why Lorelai, Bridget, and Carrie didn’t need to start their stories at 22. Because 32 isn’t about potential—it’s about momentum. They’d loved, lost, struggled, doubted. They’d made choices and had to live with them. They’d failed, learned, reimagined. And that’s when their most interesting chapters began.

It’s the same reason this moment feels meaningful to me. I’m no longer chasing a version of myself I thought I should be. I’m creating space for the person I actually am—and figuring out what he wants next.

This new chapter feels so full of possibility, partly due to the solid foundation I’ve already established. For over nine years, I’ve been fortunate enough to experience true, unwavering love with my husband—my better half, my home base. While I’ve had to rethink aspects of my future, I’ve never doubted who I want by my side through it all. I am incredibly blessed to have a partner who has encouraged and supported my personal and professional growth.

So here’s to 32: not a climax, not a comeback, but a beautiful beginning—written with more intention, more heart, and maybe just a touch of main character energy.