i think we should fuck around & find out

You ever get smacked directly in the face by the realization that … nothing is ever really promised?

Like the universe leans over your shoulder, obnoxiously chewing gum, and casually goes, “Hey … so uh, quick heads-up … everything you’re counting on? I wouldn’t bet any money on it btw.” Time? Optional. People? Optional. Plans? Extremely optional. And yet, for so long, many of us move through the world like someone, somewhere, definitely wrote down the rules. Follow them. Wait patiently. Don’t embarrass yourself too publicly. Don’t want too loudly. Don’t risk too obviously. Eventually, maybe, things will line up. People will stay. Opportunities will arrive right on schedule. Happiness will float gently into your lap like a polite house cat.

Cute story. Truly. Ten out of ten bedtime material. Joke’s on us.

Because eventually, the illusion cracks. Someone leaves. A plan dies quietly in the background. You realize you’ve been waiting for permission from … literally nobody. And your brain, that dramatic little creature, short-circuits: Wait so all those nights worrying, overthinking, pretending … were for what exactly?

Yeah, exactly. Welcome to reality. Pilot left the cockpit. Tray tables down. We’re all just pretending the plane will fly itself.

If I’m being honest, this realization doesn’t just visit. It keeps showing up. Unannounced. Uninvited. Tapping my shoulder every so often like, What’s good??? Remember me??? The existential plot twist??? Each time, for a brief electric stretch of days or weeks, I get it. I feel different. I move differently. I say The Thing. I take the small risk. I let myself exist a little less carefully. And then … somehow … fear — of what, who knows — quietly resigns a lease. Fear is extremely resourceful. Fear finds the spare key. Fear unpacks its tiny boxes labeled what if & not yet & maybe later. Hangs up its little coats of hesitation. And just like that, we’re back to following the imaginary rulebook. Waiting. Pausing. Editing down into something more manageable, more palatable, more “appropriately timed.” 

Which is like … kinda fucked.

Life already has a very specific way of humbling you. It reminds you, over & over, that most of what you planned was never guaranteed in the first place. And with the state of everything we know right now — the chaos, the uncertainty, the very real feeling that we are all just trying to stay afloat while a parasitic ruling class plays Monopoly with our lives — it feels urgent to find joy wherever you can. All the hesitation, all the rationing of yourself, all the endless waiting starts to look real strange. The only real power is in how fully you choose to exist right now.

… am I giving pseudo-motivational-speaker, or are you still with me? 

If nothing is promised, then joy stops being a luxury. It becomes a responsibility. You have to find it. Create it. Chase it down the block a little. Because this is where things shift. Where you start doing the tiny, radical, ridiculous acts of living. Nothing outrageously cinematic. Just small, off-script, human choices. Text the person you’ve been thinking about. Right now. Even if your thumbs shake & your brain screams don’t do it. Look someone in the eyes & treat it like it could be your last conversation with them. Connect. Really connect. You don’t know how much they — or you — might need it. Put your phone down for an hour. Two. A whole goddamn afternoon. Take that class. Try the hobby. Wear the thing. Say the compliment out loud instead of storing it in the museum of almosts. Stop hiding behind fear & the lie that you can always do it later. Cry when you’re overwhelmed. Cry when you’re relieved. Laugh like joy itself might be a form of resistance. Notice the strange comfort of ordinary sounds. Notice the person laughing too loudly on the street, fully committed to the bit of being alive. Every detail you ignore is a tiny theft from yourself. Don’t steal from yourself. Not today. Not anymore. And sometimes, in the middle of it all, you’ll notice your chest aching with a weird, beautiful heaviness. The kind that’s equal parts heartbreak & awe. That’s alright. Let it settle. Let it sit there. Let it stretch you open a little. Let it nudge you toward the next small, brave decision. Because that’s how we seize the moment. The alternative — the careful, filtered, “perfectly” packaged version of existence — is the real punchline. Once you accept that nothing is promised, everything sharpens. Colors feel louder. Conversations feel riskier. Time feels less like something to manage & more like something to inhabit. You stop waiting. You start showing up — messy, unpredictable, strangely sincere. And somewhere inside all that chaos, if you stop spiraling for just a moment, you find freedom. Crooked, loud, breathing freedom. The kind that shrugs and says: 

well … none of this was guaranteed anyway … might as well fuck around & find out.

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Because awareness is cute but action is hotter, I made a list. Thirty things I want to do before I turn thirty. Made it on my 29th birthday – full of conviction, optimism, & the dangerous confidence of someone who had not yet checked their calendar.

So far I have accomplished … none of them. 

Incredible performance, honestly. Olympic-level procrastination. But I’m sharing the list anyway. Mainly to hold myself accountable.

I think you should make one too.

It doesn’t have to be thirty. Could be five. Could be five hundred. Could just be a note in your phone titled “things that make me feel more like myself.” Write it down. Share it with someone you trust. Have them share theirs too. Start a shared calendar & add an activity a week. Make it real. Show up for it. Show up for each other. Reclaim the space you were born deserving.

30 BEFORE 30

1. Take a class for no reason. Just because it sounded fun in the moment.

2. Spend a night alone somewhere quiet. No phone. No noise. Just vibes.

3. Try a new creative thing. No pressure. No goal.  

4. Take myself on solo dates once a month. Flowers, food, the whole romantic setup.

5. Learn one song on an instrument I've never touched.

6. Spend the day doing something that brought me the utmost joy as a child.

7. Get a tattoo that feels like who I am right now. 

8. Host my first photography show. Even if it's in my living room.

9. Bring back the community film club. 

10. Pitch a project I’m terrified to pitch

11. Do a portrait series on queer love. 

12. Submit my work somewhere that makes my hands sweat a lil bit.

13. Make something with an artist who intimidates me. In a good way.

14. Travel somewhere just to take pictures and feel weird & alive.

15. Message someone I've lost touch with. 

16. Host a dinner where the volume is too high & nobody wants to leave.

17. Take a trip with close friends. Loose plans. Strong intentions.

18. Say yes to something I'd normally talk myself out of within forty-five seconds.

19. Travel alone for a day. Maybe more. See just how much I like my own company.

20. Stay up until sunrise — talking, writing, doing nothing. Watch it happen.

21. Disappear into nature for a weekend. Get a little lost on purpose.

22. Cook dishes from somewhere I've never been. Do it with care. Take pictures like a tourist.

23. Throw a dinner or movie night that feels more like an art project than hosting.

24. Take a photo of something mundane. Print it. Put it on my wall.

25. Get on a stage. Read something. Say something. 

26. Leave town for no reason except to remember how expansive life can be.

27. Make something with my hands that nobody else needs to see.

28. Make someone an old-school CD mixtape with songs that remind me of them.

29. Find a spot in my city I've never been. Sit there for an hour. 

30. Throw a party just because I’m alive & the people I love are too.