其實快要到30歲的時候，我就很容易在社群上被推播關於30歲的梗圖。像是2023年是1993年生的人達到30歲，於是就會看到那種等著被狗(30歲)追著跑的1993年生人類，而1994年生的人們在2024年迎來30歲的門檻，也就是我。
我一直都覺得自己是一個幸運的人，在挫折與逆境裡總是會有人可以成為我的救贖。我也一直都覺得自己是一個很喜劇的人，因為總是會有很多有趣的爛事發生在自己身上，雖然這樣的爛事通常都是因為我喜歡玩火造成的，「我享受這些爛事與危險」曾在某一篇遊記寫過，因為我相信也享受在「自我拯救」的榮耀裡。
當然並不是所有的爛事都是如此享受且沐浴於榮光裡，有時是teach me a lesson or two，像是30歲。
每一次變更數字都是一件大事，那是個里程碑，不論到底是前進還是後退。對於30這件事，我曾經想過他的樣子。我曾寫下「現在的生活是10歲時我想要的，卻是20歲時我所唾棄的。」而這句話過了1-2年了仍然正確。現在的生活是我10歲所享受的，卻是我20歲所抗拒的，可想而見我對於30歲的心情是多麽的糾結。
我和朋友K討論過30歲要怎麼慶祝，六人行裡joey對30歲的感嘆大哭立刻在腦海裡浮現，於是邀請朋友到家裡吃飯是第一個選擇，而K提議包餐廳辦生日派對。這的確是一個令人心動的選項，我的獅子座毛髮在聽到這個提議時變的閃閃亮亮。挑一個bar讓大家開心，而我可以成為焦點，好獅子，好有面子啊！但認真思考執行層面，我真的沒那麼多朋友，也沒有這麼多心力跟金錢辦這樣盛大的活動，甚至連原本構想的家裡吃飯都有點困難。因為到了這個年紀，除非是大型的活動，大多數人的生日都是跟伴侶度過，因為在社會禮俗規範又或是生物本能的驅使之下，30歲的這個時間大多人都已經會有伴侶了，但我依舊是用實力維持單身。所以最終，這一天沒有special one to acompay，我也懶得邀請親近的朋友吃飯，更不想去pick up someone，於是我把這一天留給自己，早上去上班、下午去刺青，晚上去吃牛排生日餐。
我想好好的跟自己的20歲說再見，好好度過最後一天再迎接中年生活。因為越接近這個時間我越焦慮，似乎自己總是趕不上別人，而這次再也不是我好好考一次試、負氣轉身改變環境就可以輕易改變的。
30歲是一個你和同齡人真正開始意義上不同的樣子，在學生時代每個人其實不會差異太大，所有人都是在一個微型社會裡度過。可是從22歲直到30歲的這段期間卻完全不同，不同的家庭背景、職涯發展，透過不同的選擇，每個人開始變得不同。在這個時候比較總是若有似無在聊天裡、社群裡甚至是自己的心理出現。誰買了房？誰結了婚？誰的薪水誘人？誰過得快樂？誰過得不快樂。或許是有些自卑心理作祟，又或者只是愛比較，在29歲的這段時間裡總是時不時會問自己到底做對了又或做錯了什麼？想到底這10年間的選擇，讓我成為了現在的樣子是福還是禍？
雖然我總是告訴自己，在那個當下我已經做了對自己最好的選擇，就算再回去一次，我依舊不會有其他的作為。或許我該釋懷，應該要放下我的20歲。
這一篇文章的主體寫在2024年，但我沒有勇氣發表他們，因為太私密也太狠戾，毫不留情地批評自己的30歲。這篇文字寫實得令人生氣，我寫的不是釋懷而是挫折，雖然說「應該」，但事實上是無法放手的難以忘懷。
其實30歲的生日我過得完全不是這樣，那一天生了一場大病，刺青被推遲，而生日晚餐被遺忘，這不是刻意為之，但卻也完成了當時的情緒，因為我還沒能接納自己，所以這一場「意外」合理了一切的複雜情緒。
2025年，即將邁入31歲，以為會一起單身到老的前室友結了婚，妹妹也是，而我還是我自己。想嘗試談一場戀愛卻失敗的徹底、想完成一些連結卻被狠狠拋棄（好啦其實沒有，但在情緒的當下是如此沒錯），而部落格也在這一年迎來架設10週年。
我沒有成為當初幻想的「旅行作家」，也還沒寫完「失落十年」計畫，「朝聖之路」系列文章的完成是偷懶用當時的朝聖日記塞滿的，甚至在9年屆滿時僅完成87篇文章，這是連100篇都還不到的量啊，一年10篇真的不多吧！完全印證了簡介裡說的「這個部落格記錄我生活上的和旅行的大小事，不會被定期更新因為想法總是不期而遇。」
所以我添加了一點燃油，花更多時間開發主題和靈感、回頭檢視與收集曾經寫過的文字碎片，在半年的時間補上了12篇文章，但第100篇文章卻不能這麼「隨便」了，畢竟朋友總說我很有「yee式感」，第100篇必須要mean something。單純寫回顧太過cliche、rewrite過去的作品心有餘而力不足，在翻閱archive時，這篇尚未表的文章讓我眼睛一亮。因為我發現藏在文字裡的故事，好多句子就像是座標，標的在這個部落格裡的某一篇文章，某一個快樂或是某一個心碎。
我把成長的軌跡拼貼在一篇文章裡，而現在第100篇文章，我想要的meaning就是摘取跟回顧。我在冒險也在追求平靜，我在失去後悔，也在獲得滿足。
謝謝過去10年，而現在是下一個階段了，我在下一個decade。
不爭氣用課金之力，讓chatGPT幫我寫英文版
As I approached thirty, I started seeing a flood of memes about turning thirty on social media. In 2023, those born in 1993 hit the milestone, so you’d see images of ‘1993 humans’ being chased by a giant dog named “30." And now, in 2024, it’s our turn — those of us born in 1994.
I’ve always felt like a lucky person. Even in the face of hardship and setbacks, there was always someone or something that offered me redemption. And I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a tragicomic character. Strange, chaotic things tend to happen to me — usually because I like playing with fire. In one of my travelogues, I once wrote, “I enjoy the mess and the danger," because I genuinely believe I find glory in self-rescue.
Of course, not all messes are enjoyable or glorious. Some exist purely to teach me a lesson or two — like turning thirty.
Every time the number changes, it feels monumental. A milestone, whether it means progress or retreat. I’ve thought a lot about what thirty might look like. I once wrote, “The life I have now is what I dreamed of at ten, but scorned at twenty.” And two years later, that sentence still rings true. This life is what my ten-year-old self would love, but my twenty-year-old self would reject — no wonder I’m conflicted about turning thirty.
I once discussed with my friend K how I should celebrate. Joey’s meltdown over turning thirty in Friends immediately came to mind. Inviting friends over for a meal was the first option. K suggested booking a restaurant for a proper birthday party. That did sound tempting — my Leo mane sparkled at the idea. Rent a bar, let everyone have fun, and be the center of attention? Oh yes, very Leo, very on-brand. But in reality, I don’t have that many friends, nor the energy or money to host a grand party. Even the original plan of a home dinner started to feel too much. At this age, unless it’s a big celebration, most people spend their birthdays with a partner. Social norms and biological instincts — by thirty, most people have someone. But not me. I’ve stayed single by sheer willpower.
So that day, there was no “special one" to accompany me. I didn’t bother inviting close friends. I didn’t feel like picking up someone new. I gave the day to myself: work in the morning, a tattoo appointment in the afternoon, and a solo steak dinner at night.
I wanted to say goodbye to my twenties with intention — to close the chapter before stepping into middle age. The closer I got to thirty, the more anxious I became. I always feel like I’m falling behind. And this time, it’s not something I can fix with another exam or a sudden change of scenery.
Thirty is when you and your peers start to truly look different. In school, the gap between people is small — everyone is in the same micro-society. But between twenty-two and thirty, everything diverges. Family background, career choices, life decisions — suddenly, we’re on different tracks. Comparisons sneak in, subtly or blatantly, in conversations, social media, and late-night thoughts. Who bought a house? Who got married? Who earns more? Who’s happy? Who’s not? Maybe it’s insecurity, or maybe just human nature — but at twenty-nine, I found myself constantly wondering if I’d made the right choices. Have the decisions of the past ten years brought me fortune or regret?
I keep telling myself: at every moment, I did what was best for me. Even if I could go back, I probably wouldn’t do things differently. Maybe it’s time to let go. Maybe I really should say goodbye to my twenties.
This piece was originally written in 2024. But I didn’t have the courage to publish it. It was too personal, too bitter — an unflinching critique of my thirty-year-old self. It wasn’t a text about peace or resolution, but one about frustration. It said “should” a lot, but in truth, I couldn’t let go.
Ironically, my thirtieth birthday didn’t go as planned. I fell seriously ill. The tattoo got postponed. The birthday dinner was forgotten. It wasn’t intentional, but it aligned perfectly with my internal chaos — a fitting expression of the fact that I hadn’t fully accepted myself.
Now it’s 2025, and I’m about to turn thirty-one. My former roommate — who I once thought I’d be single with forever — got married. So did my sister. And me? I’m still here. I tried to fall in love and failed spectacularly. I tried to forge new connections and got harshly rejected (well, not really, but in the moment, it felt that way). Meanwhile, this blog turned ten.
I never became the travel writer I once dreamed of. I haven’t finished the “Lost Decade" series. The Camino de Santiago posts were hastily compiled from old pilgrimage journals. When the ninth year hit, I had only published 87 posts — not even 100! Ten posts a year isn’t a lot. It’s almost comedic, especially considering my blog description reads: “This blog records the big and small things of my life and travels. It doesn’t update regularly, because inspiration always strikes unexpectedly.”
So I poured in some fuel — spent more time developing themes, revisited old drafts, and pieced together lost fragments. In six months, I made up twelve entries. But I knew I couldn’t let the 100th post be just “whatever.” Friends always say I have a signature “Yee-style,” and the 100th post had to mean something.
A simple reflection felt too cliché. Rewriting an old piece felt too draining. Then I stumbled upon this unpublished draft buried in my archive, and something clicked. So many lines felt like coordinates — pointing back to a certain blog post, a moment of joy, or a moment of heartbreak.
This entry became a collage of growth. For the 100th post, I wanted it to be about memory and meaning. I’m still chasing adventure while longing for peace. I regret what I’ve lost, but I’m also fulfilled by what I’ve found.
Thank you to the past ten years. Now begins the next chapter. I’m stepping into my next decade.
Yee’s 
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