It happened after just two beers. Ok, they were craft ones, with adjectives like “hazy” or “notes of grapefruit.” And suddenly I was mainlining Imodium like it was a Vodka in July 2014. At 32, my body has apparently unionised, and digestion is on strike.
In my twenties, I was invincible. I could drink tequila that had a worm in it, eat food that had lived questionably long in the fridge, and sleep on a bus station, using my purse as a pillow without the care in the world. Now? I drink two beers and need to journal about it.
They never tell you this part about your thirties. They hype it up as the decade of knowing yourself, of confidence, of glowing skin because you finally figured out how to wash your face. But here I am, with responsibilities pouring out of me like the aforementioned beer-induced diarrhoea, wondering if knowing myself just means discovering new things to be intolerant to.
Growing Pains (and Gas)
The gut is the first to go. I used to mock the women in leggings carrying sauerkraut and kefir around like they were biblical relics. “It’s all about the gut microbiome,” they’d whisper, as if delivering a prophecy. Well, guess what? They were right. My digestive tract now reacts to alcohol, stress, strong opinions, and the wrong kind of pain pills.
We’ve become a generation of IBS influencers, and I hate how relatable that is. We do yoga, not for enlightenment, but because stretching is now the only thing separating us from full skeletal collapse. We drink water like it’s currency. We do things like buy chia seeds on purpose.
The Teenage Brain in an Adult Costume
Despite the flaxseeds and other supplements, sometimes I still feel like a teenager in drag. My emails have professional signatures, my kitchen has a spice drawer with labels, but my inner monologue still sounds like a moody 17-year-old.
I’m married, I have a child, I do grown-up things like grocery planning and having a shared calendar with my husband—but I also regularly forget how old I am. Not in a cute, “oh I’m just so carefree!” way. In a “wait, am I 31 or 32?” kind of dissociative fugue.
Adulthood feels like a game I’ve been pretending to know the rules to. Sometimes I look at my husband (who somehow turned 40 while I was blinking) and wonder when we signed up for this joint lease on middle age. Then we go eat broccoli and exercise every single day, each trying to outrun the specter of lower back pain in our own deeply personal ways.
Exercise: The New Religion
Remember when exercise was punishment for eating cake? Now it’s preventative medicine. I use the elliptical machine not to be thin, but to stay alive long enough to explain to my daughter what a CD was. My Apple Watch and I have an emotionally abusive relationship. If I forget to log a workout, did I even do it?
We don’t party anymore—we train. We sweat like it’s a confessional. We apologise to our bodies every day for what we put them through in our twenties. “I’m so sorry about the Juice vodkas, Sandra,” I whisper to my liver before bed. “Thank you for your service.”
Social Lives on Life Support
Plans now require planning. There is a shared understanding that canceling last-minute is not rude, it’s self-care. My social calendar is managed like a diplomatic summit. Three weeks’ notice, an escape clause, and the understanding that if someone bails, we’ll just send each other heart emojis and reschedule for never.
Gone are the nights of impulsive plans and 4 AM giggles on the street with fries. Now it’s lunch—with military-grade coordination—but we need to be home by 7 PM for the bedtime routine. I measure friendships in shared calendars, bonded not by wild nights but by the quiet solidarity of exhaustion.
Welcome to Adulthood
The thirties are a liminal space. We’re not old, but we’re not young anymore. We’re in the soft gooey middle, like the inside of a date bar you made because TikTok told you it was “just like a Snickers.” (It’s not.) We’re fermented, not fresh. Cultured, not wild. Digestive, not destructive.
And yet, somehow, it’s okay. There’s quiet power in this shapeshifting decade. We begin to parent ourselves, not just our kids. We learn the difference between rest and avoidance, between stillness and stagnation. We build lives—messy, tender, protein-rich lives—that actually feel like ours.
So yes, I may react to beer like I’m in a Greek tragedy. Yes, I stretch like someone preparing for surgery. Yes, I sometimes stare at my reflection and ask, “Who is she, and why is she so tired?” But I also laugh harder, cry faster, love deeper—and my bowel movements, when functional, are a source of genuine pride.
Welcome to your thirties. They’re weird, wonderful, slightly bloated—and surprisingly full of meaning, if you sit with them long enough. Preferably after a probiotic.
Erika Matic is a writer who documents the hilarious, unglamorous, and occasionally bowel-related truths of modern adulthood.
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