Twelve.

Sitting here on Paradise Island, I think riding a water slide through a shark tank is the perfect way to turn thirty.

In the lead up to the big three-zero, I made a big commotion to all the people in my life about wanting to mark the occasion with something special. Turning thirty, as an event in and of itself, didn't feel particularly significant to me; I felt indistinguishable from myself at twenty-nine or twenty-eight. However, I wanted to do something nice for myself for a variety of reasons.

Perhaps because I grew up with very little, I was always of the mindset that nice things should be saved for special occasions. That carried over to the first decade of my life in New York: all of the apartments I'd ever called home were sparsely furnished because I never had a reason to splurge on anything. Despite my then-career in corporate banking, I was extremely conservative with my finances, reasoning that I needed to build a safety net for any unforeseen circumstances. Additionally, in that first decade, I moved eleven times in ten years—I knew that accumulating possessions would only make my life more cumbersome. So, I never bought nice things, I never used the nice candles my friends made me, I never opened the nice wines people gifted me. I never let myself enjoy anything.

But, in the aftermath of my worst breakup ever, I stopped caring. I dropped every pretense and I no longer bothered to adhere to the arbitrary rules of existence I'd subconsciously created for myself. In the fallout of losing the love of my life, nothing mattered anymore. I was, for a moment in time, a shell of myself, and it was really, really bad.

Although I was numb to everything, there was a part of me that tried desperately to save me. My good side, my responsible side, forced me to buy groceries, dragged me to the gym, intentionally put me next to my friends so that I wouldn't be left alone to wallow in my stupor. Almost as if I were astral projecting, I watched my body go through the motions of doing things to keep myself alive. I knew, intuitively, that I needed to feel alive, that I was searching for ways to feel alive, to reignite that certain spark within myself, like trying to start a car on a severely cold morning. I was the car that just wouldn't start.

For myself, I pulled all the stops. I purchased my produce from the organic section at Trader Joe's. I bought hand soap from Aesop. I blew over a month's rent on a vintage Hermès messenger bag. I quit my job and took myself on a trip around Italy, and I shopped while I was there, too. I stopped counting calories and ate gelato every day. I let myself do all the things that I would've previously deemed reckless and irresponsible because I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted to feel like myself again.

Part of maturing, of getting older, is also allowing oneself to succumb to the common adage that any occasion becomes a special occasion if we let it. It is the understanding that, as one's own caretaker, one must continuously curate beauty and fun and nourishment for oneself because it will never otherwise, magically, materialize. I was extremely fragile; I needed to be gentle with myself, so I was.

I also wanted to give my future self something to remember. Although thirty as a number was just that—a number—to me, I didn't want to be pedantic in pretending that it was altogether meaningless. It cost me nothing to permit myself to admit that I live as a human being amongst others in a society, and that in our society it's commonplace to celebrate the start of a new decade, and that doing so symbolized only whatever I wanted it to symbolize. I wanted a celebration that reaffirmed that I was now firmly on the other side of all the trials that had tribulated me, something that allowed me to reclaim the one thing that I was allowed by every measure to honor: my birthday.

I should also admit, I suppose, that that was because the big, bad breakup had happened on my birthday the year prior. April 6, the one day I customarily anticipated of all the days of a year, had become tainted with the sadness of that event, and I had spent months dreading every sixth for being tangentially related. As I approached the end to a full year without water, I was determined to wrest back control of my date. For the sake of my future self, I wanted to create some happy memories about which I could later reminisce.

I once mentioned elsewhere that I'd previously talked up the prospect of vacationing in the Maldives, but that ultimately didn't pan out; as generous as I was willing to be with myself, I still felt that $700-per-night villas, reached after twenty-four hours of travel, should be saved for a more meaningful (read: not solitary) experience. So, instead and enticed by the advertisements of a shark tank waterslide, I took myself to the Bahamas.

Below are excerpts taken from my diary at the time, journaled for posterity.

I’m reading (R. F. Kuang's) Babel, finally, and my soul soars with joy because I’ve been anticipating reading this book for so long, and it meets its measure. In so many ways, I relate to existing at crossroads.

How many others can say they’ve stood at Pompeii, at Potala Palace, on Paradise Island, and how much more is out there for me to discover? It’s the Caribbean sun, it’s the freedom of being on vacation, I know, but I feel myself recharging. An Aries needs warm light as much as a bicoastal elite needs the shores, after all.

It’s my last day being twenty-nine; the end of a decade, the start of another. Simultaneously, I feel older and yet not at all. I plan to spend today by the ocean and tomorrow at Atlantis, ending with calm solitude and beginning with a bang. I think the key to moving on, from last year, is keeping myself occupied, giving myself something to anticipate with pleasure, to keep flowing that steady stream of endorphins so that I don’t descend back into depression, at least until I’ve made my peace. I resolve to make the most of my remaining years; I want to live a life full of adventure.

I don’t plan to end this day with a big kerfuffle; it will pass quietly, peacefully.

I know I'm delusional, but I've been seeing four and six, my angel numbers, everywhere, as I get closer to tomorrow: within Civilization VI, in the elevator buttons, in the clock, in convoluted arithmetic involving other numbers such as my hotel room (410, because ten minus four is six)…it just feels like I’ll have a good day tomorrow.

I went to the beach for two hours, swam in and asked for blessings from the ocean, and read for an hour on the sand. Then, I got bored, so I came back to the resort for lunch. I've been gorging myself on jerk chicken all week. Now, I’m just lounging by the pier under a parasol. I asked the ocean to wash away the sadness of my past, and in return I promised to share her gifts.

On the eve of my birthday, I'm surfing the internet on my hotel's Wi-Fi as I sit on the beach, admiring the sunset. I could scream from all the gratitude that I'm feeling.

Atop Power Tower on April 6th proper, a boy is reluctant to follow his friends down the tallest water slide because he’s scared. I try to encourage him, since they’re a group and directly ahead of me, but he beseeches me to go first. So, obliging him, I get into the tube and, as I slide down, I scream as hard as I can, just to make it seem a little more fun (scary). I'm very pleased with the waterproof smartphone case I've purchased at the gift shop.

At lunchtime, I stop by a vendor by the beach. I ask for a bush crack chicken (named for the beer batter) and a coconut monkey (fresh coconut stuffed with a pineapple slice, maraschino cherries, and pumped full of rum) because I’m feeling festive. I tell the service lady it’s my birthday, hence my order, and, asking how old I’m turning, she teases that the chicken will get me tipsy. She’s surprised to learn I’m turning thirty, and she roars with laughter and makes a point of repeating to her coworkers verbatim my words when I joke to her Asian doesn’t raisin. Happy birthday to me; I’ve already sung to myself in one of the river raft ride's dark tunnels. It’s a $50 lunch—$50 to swallow mouthfuls of grease instead of the "healthy" wrap I originally wanted, but I decide to try something new—and I eat alone, just steps from the beach, from the ocean that blessed me with peace and prosperity. I promise myself that this decade, and all those subsequent, will be better.

It goes unsaid, of course, that I think of him. But, it’s been a whole year now, another orbit completed, and I’m no longer devastated. Better things my way come, such as the executed contract on what will be my next home.

Happy fucking birthday.

Later that night, after I've spent the day in the waterpark, I’m certain it’s the influence of the house red wine, but I acknowledge there’s something magical about this moment: dinner on the “beach” (read: hotel lagoon) as the hired band belts out my favorite Céline Dion song (The Power of Love, and I’m fully aware hers is a cover, but I like her version best—my apologies to Jennifer Rush) and the Filipino folks sitting at the table next to me sing along. I look at the lights strung between palm trees and at the torches planted firmly in the sand, watching their brightness fracture through my astigmatism, and I accept reality: I’ve been extremely lucky, and I don’t have any excuse to be sad anymore because life is actually quite good. I can't give up on myself. Screw my diet—I’m going to make myself another taco.

As I eat dessert, closing out the first night of my thirties, I blow out a strawberry petal in lieu of a candle as I make my birthday wish.

My week on the Lucayan Archipelago—and my accompanying journal entries—ended with gratitude. I'd watched, when I was in great need of the mental fortitude to go on living, a TED Talk on traumatic grief and the healing power of gratitude: by refocusing the brain on positive occurrences, grief could eventually subside. I had nothing to lose, so I tried that, too. I'd always been a glass-half-empty kind of guy, but, as corny as I felt while doing it, I became thankful for everything. I was thankful for the croissants I'd purchased for breakfast; I was thankful for Paris Baguette opening down the block from my apartment. I was thankful that I had the means to whisk myself away to an island resort, where I finished reading two books and began reading a third.

Upon my return to New York, I'd planned a birthday party at the Chelsea Piers Sky Rink, where I would spend a day with some of my favorite people. As I finally closed the chapter on my twenties, I was thankful to be alive.