"35, Still Alive"

Your annual—nay, half-decade—reminder to make friends with fear.

Whenever someone turns 35, I impulsively think, “35, still alive!”.

It’s odd. It’s spectrumy. And yes, I have slogans for most ages.

Exhibit:

“32, chu brand new!”

“33, lots to see!”.

“34, so much more!”.

Without surprise, little thought goes into these. I just open my enamelled trap and whatever comes out is it.

Then, while mowing manchego at the birthday girl’s kitchen island, I drop “35, still alive”, the room goes cold, and we all move on.

Admittedly, blurting out “35, still alive” felt a lot more carefree when I was 34 (with so much more).

But on the morning of April 26, 2025, I awoke to my own 35th birthday. As I lay in bed, I thought, “Holy shit, I’m 35!”.

Then, it came.

“35, still alive!”

“Still alive?! The fuck?! Of course I’m still alive you idiot! 35 is young…for old people!”

At that very moment, tucked under covers, I felt moved to rebrand the 35 birthday slogan—a slogan that I’d used on countless unsuspecting celebrants.

“35, time to thrive?”

“35, trip to Maldive(s)?”

None had the same ring as “35, still alive”, so to avoid straying too far, I landed on “35, feeling alive”.

Since the rebrand, I’ve spent two weeks in my mid-30s. I’m happy to report that 35 is feeling alive.

In many ways, it feels the most alive.

Much of the uncertainty of our training-wheeled adult years has broken away.

35 is a more dialed-in, competent version of 30 where we finally have the experience, resources, and sobriety to execute.

35 is an age that gives off enough stability that a 20-something bartender (who doesn’t know who OJ Simpson is?) tells you, “You remind me sooo much of my Aunt!”. And when you push back she says, “Not my Great Aunt—a regular Aunt!”.

At the same time, 35 is shapeshifty.

Occasionally in low-light and loud music, you can pass as a collagen-rich delinquent. After all, you’re only one layer outside of yesterday’s youth. And when you shut your eyes, you’re teleported back to iPods, $5 walk-in pizza, and your first cockroached apartment.

Because somehow, with the speed of a street meat mystery shart, 25 turns into 30, which morphs into 35.

At first glance, it feels like not much has changed in five years. And if we’re lucky, not much has. The important people, places, and pieces remain constant.

However, when you take the five-year teleportation trip (stop before you reach the cockroaches), you’ll hopefully find less shakiness. We’re more self-assured. We’ve shaved off measurable fucks.

And if we’re doubly lucky to have held onto our big feelings and hopeful abstractions, we’re closer than ever. We’ve just cleared off a bit more runway.

So, ahead of our next half-decade check-in, let’s choose “feeling alive”.

Alive means recognizing the possibility before us and stepping into the unknown. It means selecting discomfort in pursuit of something greater.

And while it’s almost impossible to leave our perfectly curated bubble, we owe it to our next five-year self.

Imagine what 40, 50, or 70 could look like if we transform the Mr. Burns-hunchbacked-mothballed-darkness of our own decline into fuel? If we turn time’s finiteness into strategic action to live more fully. If we accept that we’ve got a few shots to take and the winds may never be better than right now?

After all, the opposite of alive isn’t dead. It’s complacency. It’s excusing our boredom and smallness because of fear—fear of failure, bankruptcy, receeding gumlines, etc.

If we don’t make friends with our fear, we allow comfort to steer. And comfort—while nice—only wants to circle the block, eat chips, and pull into the driveway before dusk to watch The Voice.

Birthdays exist for gratitude, but also to make us look time in the eyes.

They are an annual nudge to make hay while the sun shines. To stop making excuses, and take steps towards the fantasy version of ourselves—because that self is just as real as our loser, BBQ-stained, puffy gunt version.

Dealer’s choice.