I will never forget the true swings of depression in my twenties. By the time this goes up I will be freshly thirty years old and I cannot wait. It’s not that I expect life to suddenly get easier, or that depression and disappointment disappear at thirty. But I feel grateful to be moving on from a chapter that felt so dizzying and raw.

I have been excited to turn thirty starting early on in my twenties. I remember coming home for Thanksgiving not long after graduating college. I had moved from a sunny, vibrant city to a colder, more sterile one, chasing a job I hoped would give me some direction. At the dinner table, surrounded by my family, I felt completely numb. I had no interests to speak of, nothing I was excited about. I felt like a shell. My sister made a joke about someone she knew turning thirty—how terrible that must be—and without thinking I said, “I can’t wait to be thirty.” Even at twenty-two, I knew: whatever this is, I don’t want it.

I was suspicious of the twenties in general. People told me college would be the best years of my life—it wasn’t. Then they said real money and promotions would fulfill me—they didn’t. They promised new cities would fix the rest. They hadn’t. So I started wondering: who were all these people, offering these vague, sweeping truths about how life should feel? Whoever they were—I didn’t trust them.

What I meant then, and what I still mean now, is that I wanted a life that felt more…human. I wanted new experiences to shape me. I wanted to change my mind and then change it again. I wanted to be in situations that challenged me and meet people who challenged my way of thinking. What I received was monotonous days, empty hangovers, and the endless shuffling of papers in Corporate America. This felt like the beginning of the rest of my life.  

The twenties moved forward in all their stumbling mediocrity. Every system—work, healthcare, relationships—revealed itself to be far more broken than I’d imagined. I’ll never forget my first “free” preventative doctor’s appointment that cost me $340 because I mentioned having a cold at the time. 

The twenties have a way of teaching you just how much you don’t know, and how fast you’re expected to figure it out anyway.

I hoped that by thirty, I’d stop feeling like every mistake was a public faceplant and every heartbreak meant I’d never be okay again. I’m not saying that won’t ever happen again, but the edges have softened. I’ve grown more comfortable with myself, and less interested in pretending the status quo works well enough for me.

What I will always appreciate about that twenties shine that never fully arrived was I got to make my own world. I got to build my own timelines for what I wanted my life to look like. I ditched the fake luster of being a cog in a corporate machine. I left so many cities and made new friends that reflected the kind of person I was and wanted to be. I realized I was a queer woman who did not want kids and that blew up the rest of what was my ‘ticking biological clock.’ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times! But I was finally and truly free. 

In that same vein, I never planned to build something like saymore. It came from tuning into the parts of myself I used to try to quiet—the parts that craved connection, honesty, and something more meaningful than just checking boxes. I spent so much time chasing safety, doing what was “smart,” trying to follow the five year plan. But eventually I realized: it’s more worthwhile to take risks and lots of them. Saymore is my contribution to the internet, of shaping it into something softer, more reflective, more human.

Whatever this next chapter holds for thirty year old Steph, I know this: I will do it my way. There will still be all of the feelings from the twenties but this time I will have more confidence and self trust. And for whatever is still ahead—for me, for saymore—this space will hold what it needs to and we will be more than okay.

So no, I don’t dread turning thirty. I welcome it. I’m not going away—I’m just getting started.

Share with those who missed it - we had a BLAST!

March and April were a whirlwind for saymore—two live events, two more on-demand events coming soon, and one overwhelmed founder (hi). It was the kind of month that reminds you what you’re capable of—and also humbles you real fast.

It was such a busy time, and an anticipated time that I was so proud of. When we hosted our Women and Miscarriage event in NYC last fall, I felt it in my bones: this is the work I want to do. Real people. Real conversations. In real time. That’s where the magic is.

This spring, we wanted to take that same energy and bring it to our broader community—wherever they are. There was an urgency to it. Every topic we picked felt equally vital, timely, and necessary to tackle. These weren’t just content ideas or marketing themes—they were real conversations that needed a place to land. We leaned into virtual events to meet more people where they are and to capture more nuanced, sensitive, and deeply needed conversations. Topics that don’t often get the attention they deserve in glossy wellness spaces.

What I didn’t fully prepare for—despite all the planning and spreadsheets—was how much these events would impact me on a personal level. I’m an empath by nature, and what that means is that when people open up, I don’t just hear their stories—I feel them. I carry them around with me for a while. And this past month, I carried it all.

Each event was intimate in its own way. People were brave. They showed up with their full selves, sometimes with pain still fresh, sometimes with clarity that only comes from having lived through it. And after every session, whether it was a panelist sharing something deeply personal or someone in the audience speaking up in the live chat, I sat with it all.

I found myself processing long after the screen went dark. I was overwhelmed, yes—but not in a negative way. Overwhelmed by how honest people were willing to be. How much trust they placed in saymore, in each other, in the space we created. It’s no small thing to tell the truth in public. Especially about topics like imperfect parenting and life-long depression. These are things we’re taught to quietly survive, not share.

After every single event, I felt this wave of pride—not just in what we’d pulled off logistically, but in the kind of community we’re attracting. I kept thinking: These are the people I want to build with. People who aren’t pretending to have it all figured out. People who are curious, kind, and deeply human. Whether they were panelists, audience members, or folks just tuning in and holding space quietly from behind their screens—it all mattered.

Each of these conversations was special in its own way:

• The Influencer and Social Media round table—raw, honest, and hilarious with the young influencers themselves speaking about the good that they’ve built from the internet!
• A candid talk on the mental health of young adults and the parents who love them - a real life therapy session that made us laugh and cry!
• Coming soon, ADHD and Women: Relationships edition. We always talk about school and work with regard to ADHD but what about our platonic and romantic relationships, I promise you’ll come away giggling with this group!

After the last couple of months, I’m tired—but also clear. Clear on the importance of this work. Clear on the kind of community we’re building. Clear on how powerful it is to hold space for one another, even when it’s heavy.

May is a time to slow down—not to stop, but to soften. To integrate everything that’s unfolded. To stay grounded in why this matters, and to remind ourselves that creating space for others also means creating space for ourselves. The work continues, but so does the care.

Thanks for being part of this.

If you attended any of our events in March/April, we want to know—did you feel seen? What do you want more of? Let’s keep the momentum and make this space yours as much as it is ours.

Parents of Adult Children Full Replay - share with your parent/child today!

Back when I was straight and had only lived in Nebraska, I remember often thinking: I do not see my life past forty years old. I just had no idea what it would look like. Except I knew exactly what it would look like: suburbia, wife and mother of 2.5 kids, and a house on a quiet street counting down the days until the next vacation. There is nothing wrong with that life, but I already found it suffocating. I could feel the weight of those days pressing down on me, and my eyes dulled. I was so afraid of that being the rest of my life and how much I knew I would hate it. What else was there to imagine for myself at that point?

Now I am almost thirty, and life looks fuller and more open and liberating than I could have ever imagined. The questions I had in my early twenties have started to find answers. I love where I live. I have a wonderful girlfriend. A job I am almost too passionate about!!! And still, I feel this long, tiresome to-do list constantly in my mind. I have worked hard and built a life that I really want to be a part of, yet the dullness in my eyes and the weight on my shoulders still feels real. 

People keep telling me to go back to what excites me, and then even that becomes its own chore. Make sure to find joy today! Didn’t find joy on my walk because of all the construction workers? Well, you better find joy somewhere else! It’s exhausting.

When did all the tips and tricks turn into more things to worry about? I shouldn’t have coffee until two hours after I wake up. Oh, and it’s best to go on at least a ten-minute walk after a full meal. What if what brings me joy is having coffee as soon as possible in the morning and then taking a nice, long rest on my couch after a big meal? What if what brings me joy conflicts with all the never ending “wellness tips" we think about every day?

The worst news is I am not present. The other part is my brain is constantly thinking and worrying and calculating to the point that I get so sick of living inside of it. And finally, all tasks now seem joyless.

I know I’m alone in this. It seems like so many of us are working so hard to build a life that we think will bring us fulfillment, only to find that the act of maintaining it strips away that same fulfillment. We read articles, listen to podcasts, watch TikToks about optimizing joy, but the very act of trying so hard to be happy makes happiness feel like another item on the to-do list.

I used to believe that life would eventually settle into something smooth and whole—that if I worked hard enough, built the right relationships, and found the right city, everything would just click into place. But the truth is, fulfillment doesn’t seem to work that way. It’s not a puzzle to be completed; it’s something that fluctuates. Some days, I feel content and full of purpose. Other days, I feel overwhelmed, like I am barely keeping up with my own expectations.

Aren’t we all just making it up as we go? Trying to look like we’re in control while still figuring it out in real time?

So, what do we do? How do we stop turning every piece of advice into a rule, every joy into a goalpost, every moment of rest into a failure of ambition? Maybe it starts with allowing ourselves to just exist. To accept that not every moment has to be productive or fulfilling. To let go of the idea that we need to be constantly optimizing ourselves.

Maybe it’s okay that I still drink my coffee first thing in the morning, even if some study tells me it’s not the best for my cortisol levels. Maybe it’s okay that I take a long nap after a meal instead of walking it off. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t always find joy in the places I’m supposed to. Maybe, just maybe, being present means letting go of the pressure to be present in the ‘right’ way.

I don’t have the answers. But I do know this: the life I have built is one I never could have imagined for myself ten years ago. And while it is a lot different and maybe a little messier than I thought, it is completely full of surprises every single day… in the best way.