Dear 30-year-old me,

I’m writing this from the middle of 28. I’m sitting at my desk at 10:30 AM. The black coffee is cold. And I have no idea who you are.

But I want to tell you some things before I forget what this felt like.

Right now, I’m confused. About what I want. About who I’m becoming.

About whether the choices I’m making are right or just the best guesses I have.

I hope you remember that confusion. Not as a failure but as evidence that I was paying attention.

Right now, I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind of tired that comes from performing a version of yourself in every room. I hope, by the time you read this, you’ve found at least one room where the mask comes off.

Right now, I’m writing about men’s emotional lives on the internet, and some people think it’s important and some people think it’s weak.

I hope you kept writing. Not because it got easier, but because you decided the honesty mattered more than the comfort.