Turning Thirty in Puerto Rico

When I planned my 30th birthday trip to Puerto Rico, part of me thought I might return with a new version of myself. Thirty felt like a threshold — the kind of milestone that might demand reinvention.

But what actually happened was something quieter. Instead of discovering someone new, I rediscovered a version of myself I already knew well: the curious, adventurous one who has always felt most alive in unfamiliar places.

 A few years ago, I told my therapist that I hated my birthday. Having a birthday in mid-December meant people were usually busy with holiday travel or family plans, and year after year I found myself trying to organize last-minute dinners that never quite came together the way I hoped. More than once, I ended the day disappointed — sometimes even in tears.

My therapist suggested something simple that completely changed the way I approached my birthday: take a trip every year instead. Go somewhere new, celebrate however I want, and stop depending on everyone else’s schedules to make the day feel special. I’ve taken a birthday trip every year since, and it completely changed the way I feel about aging and celebrating my circles around the sun.

This year, however, I almost didn’t plan anything. I would be turning 30, but I felt no real pull toward any particular destination. I had halfway decided to just stay in Atlanta — that is, until about two or three weeks before my birthday, when I began to feel extremely overwhelmed in my personal life.

I had been in a bit of a rut leading up to that moment. I didn’t quite feel like myself. Much of my time and energy had been spent supporting the people around me and keeping life running smoothly, and somewhere along the way I realized I hadn’t been taking very good care of myself. 

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning with my mind heavy with thoughts of escape. That’s when I realized I truly needed a change of scenery — a moment to reset, refresh, and spend some time focused on myself.

Obviously, I wanted to escape the cold. I had already considered Puerto Rico months earlier while thinking about possible birthday destinations. When I looked at flights that Thanksgiving morning, the price was right, and the climate was certainly better than Atlanta’s.

Even so, I hesitated at first. I had never been before, and I didn’t actually know a whole lot about the history, the food, the culture, or the people. It would certainly be a new experience, and that felt a bit intimidating.

But the little voice in my head kept saying, “Well, that’s exactly what you need right now, isn’t it?”

And I knew she was right.

So I selected my dates, entered my credit card information, and hit the purchase button. Just like that, it was official — I was going to spend my 30th birthday in Puerto Rico. 

Two weeks later, when I arrived in PR, I didn’t have any big plans for my first day. I wanted a cold beer, a good meal, and to be in bed early — because the next morning, the actual day of my birthday, I had something exciting planned. So I kept it simple: a Medalla and a churrasco steak at a highly recommended locals café, two cocktails at a speakeasy nearby, and then back to the Airbnb to rest. It was a quiet start to the trip. But little did I know that the following day would more than make up for it.

The next morning, my alarm went off at a brutal 5:00 a.m. I had always wanted to try surfing. I’ve always loved the ocean, and for some reason, surfing had always called to me. What better way to kick off my thirties than by trying something new and extreme?

I packed my sunscreen, got in my rental car, and drove two hours — from nearly one end of the island to the other — convinced I was starting my thirties exactly the way I was supposed to: unprepared, but excited for the adventure ahead.

I met my instructor at the surf school, and together we made our way to the beach. After a quick tutorial on standing up and some instructions on getting out past the waves, we walked down to the water’s edge. Without realizing it, the very first thing I did when my feet touched the water was step on a sea urchin, leaving several of its spines still lodged in my foot as I write this. The waves were strong. Stronger than expected. My instructor mentioned that she believed that they had incorrectly predicted and underestimated the surf conditions for the day. I was scared but determined. I was going to surf a damn wave, even if it nearly drowned me.

Surfing requires far more patience and determination than I expected — paddling out, waiting for the right wave, trying to pop up at exactly the right moment, and then doing it all over again. But the feeling of standing up on a surfboard and riding a wave was incredible — and completely worth it.

It took me a few tries, but I’m proud to say I caught two good waves during my time in the ocean. I felt powerful, strong, and accomplished. I also felt exhausted, and as if all the upper-body workouts I had done in the gym leading up to that trip hadn’t prepared me at all for the extreme sport-like swimming that the ocean conditions of the day asked of me. 

I gained a new respect for surfers and for the ocean, especially when my final attempt to catch a wave ended with massive waves sending water down my throat and nose, a huge bruise on my arm from the fins of the surfboard crashing into me, scraped-up feet, and a very bruised backside from being slammed into the reef.

To put it plainly, Mother Nature beat my ass… she beat my ass GOOD.

I felt humbled — reminded of who was really in charge out there. Still, it was invigorating.

I felt like a badass, like I could finally say I’d had the full surfing experience.

The two-hour drive back was long, and my plans of going dancing at La Placita that night were canceled because of my extremely painful foot injuries. But it felt like a fitting way to begin my thirties: trying something new, getting humbled in the most rewarding way, and walking away a little bruised — but proud to have tried.

After the intensity of learning to surf, the rest of the trip unfolded a little more gently. I took a cooking class, found beaches less touched by tourists, wandered the colors and history of Old San Juan, and finally experienced La Factoría, a nightlife spot so many people had insisted I couldn’t miss. Along the way, I met people with kind hearts and stories that stayed with me. I looked outward to the ocean and upward to the night stars. I felt like myself again — more myself than I had felt in ages.

Most importantly, I rediscovered my sense of adventure, a part of myself I hadn’t felt connected to in quite some time. She was always there, just buried beneath work, family, friends, love, and the constant noise of everyday life. Every part of this trip revealed her to me once again. And by the morning of my departure, I was truly sad to be going home.

I spent my final hours in Puerto Rico surrounded by the colors of Old San Juan, wandering the streets and reflecting on my experience and on my initiation into a new decade — a new era of my existence. Eventually, I returned to a restaurant I had already visited once during the trip, overlooking La Perla and the ocean, to enjoy my last Medalla and sit with everything I was feeling.

That’s when the weight of it hit me. I was emotional and deeply aware that this version of myself — open, curious, unburdened — was temporary. She was already slipping away, minute by minute, like the time between me and my flight back to Atlanta.

I put my phone down. I wanted to be as present as possible. This moment — the warmth, the breeze, the ocean stretched out in front of me — would never return in quite the same way. Upon my return to Atlanta, there would be family and responsibilities and everyday worries waiting for me. But in that moment, I was there. I was there. And I was myself again.

And I cried. I sat there overlooking La Perla, sunglasses on to avoid inviting questions from my waitress about why I was crying, trying to soak up as much of that version of myself as I could before she disappeared into airport terminals and the rush of real life. 

My time in Puerto Rico became a rediscovery of my adventurous, wild, slightly chaotic side — a part of myself I hadn’t felt connected to in a long time. Puerto Rico held up a mirror, reflecting who I’ve always been, who life has shaped me into, and what I’ll carry forward into who I’m becoming next.

Now that I’m back in Atlanta, the excitement and the adventure feel far away, like something that happened to a different person. But the waves, the heat, the music, the stars — they became a threshold. A quiet initiation into my thirties, asking not for reinvention, but for ownership. For presence, for the power of now. For trust in the path I’m already walking. And for an appreciation of the pieces of me that were always there from the beginning — the ones I will carry with me into the next versions of myself that I have yet to meet.