Or, how I accidentally became someone who owns matching workout sets, by Erika Matic.
In my twenties, I was an unpaid intern for chaos. I drank like Prohibition was looming, danced like I was being filmed for a deeply embarrassing reality show, and lived off a diet of beige carbs and delusion. I wasn’t just “fun”—I was a walking cautionary tale in glitter eyeliner.
There were no rules, just vibes. I once ate cake for breakfast and gin for dinner, and if someone asked what I did, I said, “I’m vibing.” No one arrested me. That was the problem.
And then, as if Father Time got tired of my crap, I woke up and I was 30. Not metaphorically. Literally. One day I was 29 and sort of fine, and the next I was 30 and vaguely furious all the time. My knees creaked. My hangovers arrived with legal counsel. My skin looked like it had been quietly resenting me for years and finally filed for emancipation.
I was a wife, a mother, and a person who used to be fun, allegedly. I looked at myself and thought, “Is this it? Is this the final boss? A woman who cries in the laundry room while eating leftover spaghetti straight from the fridge?”
The Great Malaise of 30
Now, I don’t mean to be dramatic (a lie, I do), but my early thirties were an identity crisis wrapped in an empty wine bottle. My husband, bless him and his broccoli, had decided to get his life together. He stopped drinking alcohol and went to bed voluntarily before midnight. I, meanwhile, kept circling the drain of “maybe if I just eat this croissant in silence, the existential dread will leave me alone.”
I wasn’t even having fun anymore. I was just… looping. Half-assing everything—parenting, partnership, my skincare routine. I had become that girl in a rom-com montage who’s staring out of a rainy window but without the payoff where someone shows up in the rain with a boom box.
Then One Day… Something Shifted
No dramatic moment. No collapse in a changing room. No burning bush made of Lululemon.
I just woke up and thought: I can’t do this anymore.
Not in a breakdown-y way. In a boring, calm, dead-serious way that scared even me. Like my body and brain sent a quiet Slack message that said, “Okay. Let’s fix this. Before your child starts imitating your sighs.”
And so I started working out.
There was no Pinterest board. No accountability group. I didn’t even buy a new sports bra—I just stuffed my boobs into something vaguely elastic and started doing cardio every day on my elliptical machine.
It sucked. I was panting like an asthmatic walrus. But the weirdest part? I didn’t hate it.
The Accidental Glow-Up
Slowly—so slowly—I started doing more. Ten-minute workouts turned into half an hour. I walked more. I drank water, like, on purpose. I stopped eating like I was in a speed round on a cooking show. And somewhere along the way, I realised I didn’t need alcohol to unwind. I needed to stop treating myself like a trash can with Wi-Fi.
I wasn’t trying to “snap back” or “become my best self” or any of that influencer bullshit. I just wanted to feel okay in my body. I wanted to be someone who could carry groceries without needing a nap afterward. I wanted to model something better for my kid than “mom is tired again.”
No One Prepared Me for This
Here’s the kicker: no one talks about how deeply uncool self-growth is. I thought becoming a better version of myself would feel empowering. Nope. It feels like learning to floss again but emotionally. It’s clunky and weird and there’s so much squatting.
And I’ll be honest: there’s no high-five at the end. You just start feeling marginally better and realise that’s… it. The motivation? Comes from not wanting to feel like human expired yogurt anymore. Sexy, right?
New Me: 75% More Stability, Still Mildly Unhinged
I didn’t become a lifestyle guru. I’m not running marathons or eating lentils with purpose. I still cry before getting my period. I still look at my child’s finger paintings and briefly wonder if I’ve birthed an abstract expressionist or just someone who hates paper.
But I feel stronger. Not just physically, though yes, my thighs no longer jiggle like a haunted flan when I walk. I feel grounded in a way I never did in my twenties. Back then, my happiness was entirely based on external things—compliments, parties, fitting into pants I had no business wearing.
Now, my joy is quiet. It lives in little wins: drinking water before coffee, finishing a workout without swearing out loud, laughing with my kid without checking my phone mid-giggle.
Conclusion: The Plot Twist Was Me
If you’re reading this at 29 while chain-smoking feelings and mixing wine with vague optimism—don’t worry. You’re not broken. You’re just doing your time. The chaos is necessary. You have to misbehave, blackout, love the wrong people, ruin your liver and your bangs, and declare yourself a free spirit who “isn’t like other girls.”
It’s part of the deal.
And then, when you’ve finally exhausted your own BS, when you’re sick of your own excuses, you wake up one day and start doing push-ups. Not because someone told you to. Because you want to.
And that, my friend, is the most suspicious miracle of all.
Erika Matic is a writer, mother, wife, occasional fitness enthusiast, and full-time former party girl turned reluctant adult. She writes to stay sane, lift the veil, and laugh through the chaos.
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