Since I was a teen, I had a very specific idea of where I’d be in my life by the time I turned 29. With my birthday a week away, I’ve spent most of the week in a very low place. Going over and over in my head what’s missing, what I should be, have, own, live, work, look, drive, everything. In some of the comparisons I’m quite happy, like I’ve achieved some imaginary award from my 17 year old self. But for some of my bigger expectations, I’m far from where I thought I’d be. I see the look of disappointment and sadness on my younger self’s face. I let us both down. It’s hard to stomach. Then comes the guilt and shame of  being so dismissive of what I have achieved and how far I’ve come, this year especially. A spiral of negative emotions.

Saturday, after a fight with my best friend, I found myself in the corner of my mom’s bedroom, crying. I was so deep in my own let downs I couldn’t climb out. I felt like I was trapped at the bottom of an empty well, desperately gripping and searching for a place to find my footing, to pull myself out, but I just kept slipping back down to the bottom.

My mom came in and sat on the bed, facing the corner I was crumpled in. She began asking me questions. “Do you regret moving to Sweden?” without hesitation I said, “No, not at all.”

“When you moved back to the US, do you think you should have taken the job you were offered that paid twice what you make now, but knew you’d hate?” “No.” I replied again with no pause.

“Do you regret the career path you’ve chosen, doing what you love, but having to wait for your salary to grow?” “Of course not.” I answered, gaining a solid understanding at this point of where she was going. “These were all choices you made for yourself when you moved home from Sweden. Choices you thought out very carefully. You said if you had to come back with nothing, you were going to rebuild your life even better and stronger than it was before you left.”

She finished her point, “Do you remember where you were this time last year?” Looking down at the carpet, my knees pulled tight to my chest, I recalled exactly where I was, “Sobbing on the floor in your closet, wedged between the wall and a shelf full of sheets. I remember thinking that I was actually dying. I couldn’t breathe. I was so scared. And you pulled me out by my ankles.” “And look at you now!” She said, with a smile that filled her face and lit up her pale blue eyes.

Her words surrounded me like a warm blanket wrapped around cold shoulders, the way only a mother’s advice can. She was absolutely right. A year ago I was an inconsolable mess. My life was over, my heart was missing, buried in one of the many boxes I left in Sweden, full of belongings I’d never see again.

But now, though I did find myself crying in a corner, it had never been more clear to me. I saw the last year of my life play out like a movie. And here I was. I had done the impossible, I rebuilt my entire life exactly the way I wanted to. I even felt my heart beating strong again, something I never thought I’d experience again.

I took a deep breath and looked up at my mom. She smiled, knowing her work was done, and left the room. The tears were gone from my eyes, my cheeks stained with mascara, and for the first time in days I felt something I had been missing: pride. I was proud of myself. I was in awe of myself as I continued to play the last year over again in my head. I was the heroine of my own life. So why was 17 year old me being so critical and judgey?

She hadn’t been in love, never traveled the world alone, never had a real job with bosses and deadlines and headaches. She never experienced deep, soul wrenching heart break, the kind that poets spend their entire lives trying to put into words. She never had to start over again. She had no idea what life really was. How amazing it can be. And how horrific. She was sheltered and very naive.

I looked 17 year old me in the face and smiled. And you know what? She smiled back, a look of acknowledgement and penance in her big hazel eyes. We both realized something that afternoon; life practically never plays out the way we think it will. Even when we lay the strongest foundation for our plans. Life is fluid and always changing, swirling and folding like smoke from the end of a lit cigarette.

If my life was everything I thought it should be at 29, I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t have learned the lessons that I have, loved as hard as I have, felt the deepest emotional pain and recovered. I wouldn’t have found out that it’s absolutely possible to fall in love again. I wouldn’t be pursuing my passion as a career or have my dream job. I wouldn’t have seen the parts of my friends and family that I did, the intense worry that only comes from deep love, the support they gave, the tough love and the soft. I wouldn’t trade the last year of my life for anything, because everything happened exactly as it was meant to.

So instead of the birthday blues, this year I’ll celebrate birthday bravery. Facing another year, ready for what’s next. Feeling a little more blessed than usual and extremely proud of the person these 29 years have shaped me into.