As I bid my twenties farewell and brave the uncharted waters of my thirties, I am at a loss for what to say or how to feel. I don’t feel much different on my last day as a 20-something than I imagine I’ll feel tomorrow when I wake up a 30-year-old. I haven’t really accomplished anything by turning 30. I can’t claim some great victory or brag about achievement. On the contrary, all of my life has been gift and grace, redemption and reclamation, mercy and blessing.

So, I’m in rare form today. My modus operandi is usually to revel in a week’s worth of celebration as I complete another year, garner gifts and well-wishes, and grow a few more gray hairs. But this year, I prefer something different, I crave something more. And less.

I think what I choose to steep in this year is hope. The hope that I will laugh more, worry less, and love generously in the decade to come. The hope that I will cherish my husband deeply, show my baby beauty and truth, and abide with mercy as I journey.

Most of all, I hope I can smile like the little girl I used to be, the girl in the picture. Because in that smile, in the heart of that red-hooded girl, is a fierce determination to be just who she is. And only who she is. Before lies and fear, insecurity and confusion, unbelief and perfectionism stepped in. So I’m giving myself a hope that I will, with the same determination, be just who I am. And only who I am – flaws, quirks and all. Because that is the woman God designed me to be, regardless of any scowls or frowns around me.

Hope: it’s what I’m giving myself this year. I suppose it’s the best present I can give myself, this year or any year.