I turned thirty a couple days ago. The celebration at McManus, where people I love sang to me multiple times, was in stark contrast to my first birthday in New York (age 23). I had just come back from Thanksgiving in Rhode Island, having spent three unsuccessful months in NYC. I felt like a failure and was scared to go back to the city, where I couldn’t find a job and had almost no friends. When I returned to Astoria, I had a cheeseburger and fries delivered from a deli and ate it alone in an attempt to cheer myself up. Didn’t work.

This year, I spent my birthday being hungover from the generosity of my many kind friends. I had to bail on a rehearsal later that night because I felt so tired, and the people at the rehearsal sent me a picture of the cupcake they’d gotten me. People texted me, emailed me, wished me a happy birthday all day. This is all during another great day at my new job, where I write and perform comedy, and that’s my job.

A lot of people asked if I was nervous/scared/depressed about turning 30. I said no for a lot of reasons. Here are some: It’s just a number. I’ve got plenty of friends over 30 who are living awesome lives. I have so many better things to worry about than my age. I’m where I want to be. I’m who I want to be. I love my life.