Moody Prose

I. Thirty, Surly, and Crying.

There’s nothing more frustrating than knowing exactly what life you want — but no one loves you enough to let you have it. 

I blew out the candles on my 30th birthday — my golden birthday — in a gold, glittery dress in a trendy club in New York. Champagne glasses clinked, slices of gourmet chocolate cake were passed around a glamorous speakeasy, and a burlesque dancer danced around us. “This is thirty,” I cheerily shouted, excited about the moment and the future it would usher in. It felt okay I hadn’t found my person or that my career wasn’t exactly where I wanted it to be. My friends were moving forward, most of them were married or well on their way, but it was alright. No, it was more than alright. It was great. Gatsby great, perhaps.  The advice that “everything will fall into place at thirty” echoed through my mind, and I wholeheartedly bought in. 

I was optimistic. My twenties had been a rough ride, and the opportunity to start fresh as a “thirties baby” was something I eagerly embraced. But I’ve found this fresh turn, much like that of a new year, is a manufactured concept with no real impact on our lives. In reality, I’ve remained trapped in a 20-something purgatory, but now in a 30-something body. If nobody liked you when you’re 23, nobody gives a fuck once you’re 30.

By the time you’re thirty, you’re done growing up and becoming yourself. You are who you are. It’s scary. I no longer feel like I’m growing into my looks, and I’ve long since shifted from using makeup to look older to trying to hide the avalanche of aging. The stubborn baby fat I had as a kid is officially a PCOS belly, the long, thick hair I always wrestled to look flatter is now falling out in every shower, and the skin I so carefully and religiously moisturized throughout my twenties has started to show lines you can nearly carbon date. I want to embrace aging, but it's frustrating when you’re still going on dates and find yourself like a 23-year-old. 

Throughout my twenties, I felt like I was slowly, surely, blooming. Now, almost done with my 30th year, I feel myself wilting away. We all bloom and wilt as flowers; that’s to be expected. It’s a natural part of life that’s to be embraced. But the process feels less comfortable when you begin wilting before you’ve ever really been plucked. 

Of course, it’s better to age than to lose the opportunity. I lost my father when I was 16, inexplicably half my lifetime ago, to cancer. He missed me while getting my driver’s permit, graduating from high school, then college, moving forward (and sometimes backward) in my career, and every high and low in between from which he laid the foundation for me to grow. 

My dad was 48. An age I perceived as “adult” from the vantage point of an adolescent. It wasn’t until I crept closer to this age have I realized how young he was and how unusual it is for one to lose a life, or a teenager a parent, both so young. Yes, so as much as I complain about wilting, I’m sure he’d rather have embraced aging than death, and I try to keep that in mind with every new line that slowly appears on my face. 

But my dad left a legacy; he built a business, was a leader in our local community, had three admiring daughters, and had a love story with my mom that would split most fairytales in half. He had a community to take care of him when his illness became terminal, and at his funeral, the attendance flowed out far past the funeral room. He may have lived fewer years than many, but lived far more life than most. By thirty, he was well on his way: happily married, a financial savant, a homeowner, and planning for his first kid (spoiler: me). At 30, I have *looks around* an active Rent the Runway subscription, a freelance business that can be best described as “okay,” and, oh yes, new wine glasses from Home Goods. A whole set of six glasses! 

Despite my slow burn, I kept myself going with the idea that this loss would be temporary. But every passing year without kids is simply one less I’ll have to spend with them if that day ever comes.  I don’t have a dad, I may never find the husband I want, and Father’s Day may be something that was simply done in 2008. 

Since then, the coziest, warmest, most precious thought in my mind is the idea of having my own family. Curling up with my husband and kids on the couch at night, reading bedtime stories, laughing over dinners, and capturing every milestone. I wanted to be in love, at home, with the people I loved, and who I knew loved and needed me in return. 

Of course, having a husband wouldn’t replace the feeling of having a dad. But there’s a deep anxiety that comes with being a female without any close male family members. No brothers, living grandfathers, close uncles, or family friends who stepped up to fill the looming void my dad left behind. But there would be something deeply cathartic about watching my own kids, my heart living outside my body, experience the joy of having a father. Watching him scoop them up, run around with them in the yard, help them with math homework (let’s face it, I’ll be useless past PEMDAS), and help us all feel safe and protected late at night. Yes, I’d never get my father back, but the distant light that’s kept me going through so many of my darkest days is knowing that I might get Father’s Day back, someday.

They say to be careful what you wish for, so I’ll be clear: I don’t simply want to have kids, I want to feel the love of a full immediate family that I lost. So, since I was a teenager, with every failed relationship, dismaying first date, inconsequential meet-cute, underwhelming setup, and every swipe, hello, and “can I buy you a drink” in between, celebrating Father’s Day one day moved from a dream that pushed me to one that started to taunt me, further out of reach (they should rename it Further’s Day). Note to self: Jamie, that’s a terrible joke, no wonder you’re alone. 

How quickly I would trade the speakeasy, burlesque dancer, and most of the friends and acquaintances at my party for the steadiness of celebrating with love of my life and our babies. In reality, my big, sparkly, golden birthday party wasn’t a celebration, it was a condolence prize for where I wanted to be when I turned 30. And it’s taken a lot of energy to finally admit this. 

We’re told that everything we want in life is in our hands; if we want to lose weight, we watch what we eat. If we want to move up in our careers, we work harder. We want to move cities, we rent a truck and sign a lease. But starting a family is one of the few things you need real buy-in from another person to accomplish, and there’s nothing more frustrating than knowing exactly what life you want, but no one loves you enough to let you have it. Sure, I could find a way to have kids alone — but it’s not just about that. It is the collaboration of parenting, making memories with your partner, and the quiet moments together you share once the kids are asleep upstairs, feeling like I have a man who I love, can depend on, and who makes me feel safe, warm, and sexy, all wrapped up in two strong arms.  The looks we’d toss each other as your kids say something wise beyond their years or really, really dumb.

I don’t want the glittery dress or the champagne flute that comes with it. How quickly I’d trade it for a spit-up-covered sweatshirt when cozied up with my baby and the love of my life. One that matched the lives my friends have moved into, one by one, right on time, as I fell behind — the last flower, wilting away alone as every other started their new garden.  

Rereading this, it’s hard to imagine why someone would want to marry someone so damaged, let alone date seriously enough to consider starting a family. Sure, I can fill more years with champagne parties and nights out in New York while I hope to lock eyes with a stranger who will become the person I can be a true partner with to build the life I want. I can start getting Botox and go keto and do whatever else people do not to look thirty. And on the outside, it might look glamorous, even fun. But even if this is what thirty looks like, I don’t think this is how it’s supposed to feel.  

II. The scars you couldn’t learn to love. 

I was diagnosed with Hiradenitis Suppurativa, a disease so rare my spellcheck doesn’t even know what to do with it. It’s generic, not contagious, and was passed down to me from my dad, and his dad before him. Legacy, it’s a beautiful thing. 

Except for me, where the legacy is golf-ball-sized cystic acne, that plagued my body since middle school. Early dating was a nightmare. I’d go to parties and see girls in backless dresses, bikinis, and all the things I was too scared to wear because they’d put my HS on display. I would jump if anyone touched my back, in fear they’d feel the bumps. Changing rooms at school gave me anxiety, in fact, sitting in class in anything less than a turtleneck scared me. The risk of being exposed as the inflamed, cystic monster I was. 

You may be wondering, “WTF is HS?” A valid question, dear reader. Let’s start with the medical definition from the National Library of Medicine: 

“Hidradenitis Suppurativa (HS), also called acne inversus, is a chronic inflammatory skin condition with lesions including deep-seated nodules and abscesses, draining tracts, and fibrotic scars. These lesions most commonly occur in intertriginous areas and areas rich in apocrine glands. Among the most common are the axillary, groin, perianal, perineal, and inframammary locations. Because of the associated pain, sensitive locations, drainage, odor, and scarring, this condition may have a negative psychosocial impact.”

In other words, super sexy. 

As a teenager. this made dating a non-starter. I didn’t want to be touched, or show any guy my growing collection of cysts and scars, so I fell behind. Not just on physical experimentation, but on the emotional vulnerability and comfort you develop when forming early relationships. You first middle school reciprocated crush, your first high school boyfriend, college sweetheart. I had none of it. In retrospect, I disqualified myself from most of these scenarios before they happened. But I saw girls get teased by boys about less and wanted to protect myself from internalizing their taunts or disgust. Note from the editor — that strategy didn’t work. Plus, the only group crueler to teenage girls than boys are the other girls. “What’s…. That” was terrifying and became a question that felt all too familiar. 

The few times I was in any sort of physical situation with a boy, I was tense, filled with anxiety, and worried about the questions I received, or the spots they’d discover. Getting touched by a boy for the first time can be a nervous experience, but unbearable when you’re worried about the cystic acne they may feel on their way en route. It was a destination I wanted to reach, but so many roads felt like they had to be closed off along the way. 

As a teenager and early 20-something, I didn’t know how to sit a boy down and explain my condition. Besides, it can be hard enough to get a great boyfriend. Why would the high-quality men pick the girl whose body was covered in cysts and scars? The one who had become so emotionally closed off and withdrawn, she couldn’t learn how to form lasting connections. There were better, less complicated, and more attractive alternatives. 

The only connection HS made stronger in my life was with my dad. We treated mine earlier and there were better medications and surgeries that were available to him as a teenager in the 1970s. His was left untreated and grew out of control. These cysts tunnel and network, and grow other cysts. But we bonded over the pain, how we’d wake up if we slept pressed on an active cyst, the joy of popping and draining one down, and the relief it would bring. My dad was a titan, I absolutely adored and admired him in every sense. But HS was different for boys, scars looked rugged and manly on a grown man,  but scary and out of place on a young girl. Plus, he could cover most of the scars with body hair, hair that girls were expected to keep off. 

I have two younger sisters, neither of whom inherited the condition. So it bonded my dad and I, his oldest child,  together in a special way. It wasn’t a club you wanted to be in, but it gave us a special connection. His got worse, he became a test patient for new drugs and surgeries. A few experimental surgeries later, one of his cysts became cancerous because it was incorrectly removed and skin grafted, and became cancerous. His cancer doctor, a top oncologist in Manhattan, delayed treatment, and he passed away within a year of his squamous cell carcinoma diagnosis. 

If you have HS, don’t let this freak you out. My dad wasn’t proactive in caring for his condition, and got sucked into being a test subject for experimental drugs. Medicine had not caught up with his needs, but there are better solutions and treatments now. I did Accutane twice, and have had more than 40 surgeries, which has also prevented new cysts from emerging. But also don’t do skin graft surgeries where your doctor doesn’t fully clean out the area, because the cysts tunneled internally and created skin cancer. But if you do have questions about treating HS, please email me.

With my dad’s passing, I lost my role model, best friend, and only person who understood who I felt about this disease. My mother had been with my dad through the surgeries, but her saying she knew how they felt was kind of like a husband saying he knew the pain of giving birth because he sat in the delivery room. Unless it’s your body — you don’t understand the pain. 

I felt alone. Scared to be physically intimate, to be touched, to be seen. I held myself back a lot, in ways I may have overcome faster if I still had my dad. But I was alone. Well, besides the 20 active volcanoes regularly spewing pus onto my bathroom mirror. There were so many pretty girls with soft skin and full families. Who would pick the girl covered in cystic acne and grief of losing her dad? The idea of ever being loved and accepted, with so many scars inside and outside, was unfathomable.  

Until I met…. you.