30 & Loved

For the recovering do-it-yourselfer

This summer I watched my parents help me assemble an Ikea kitchen island in my condo, and for the first time in my life, I was trying not to do it all by myself.

The instruction manual was spread out between us, three cups of tea cooling on the counter as we debated which screws go where. Two years ago, I would’ve insisted on building it alone, staying up until 2 AM, frustrated and exhausted, but independent.

It took me until 30, four-ish years of therapy, the return of a few good souls, the arrival of some new ones, and one suspicious surprise birthday party to finally land here. Now, I wake up every day thinking: I am deeply loved. And I let myself be.

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Survival Era

Most people seem born with a baseline belief they’re worthy of love. I was not one of them.

As a textbook eldest-daughter–first-gen, competence was my currency. By sixteen, I was packing lunches, navigating transit, and Google scholarship hunting like a miniature adult. By twenty-one, sitting for professional designation exams, self-reliance wasn’t admirable, it was default.

Competence gets you places. Inside though, it feels like a full-time job with no vacation days or sick leave. Eventually, it catches up. For me, it came in the form of PMDD: days spent crying, tissues piling up in a wastebasket, unable to work or ask for help. I didn’t understand it at the time, but this was my body’s way of begging me to stop muscling through life alone, but I didn’t know how to let anyone in.

At 27, after a year of therapy and several half-hearted “you free for dinner?” attempts, I finally called my mom. Then my best friend. On the kitchen floor of my tiny downtown studio, sobbing and completely undone, they stayed on the line. My mom didn’t try to fix it. My best friend didn’t check the time. They just sat with me in it.

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Receiving Era

That’s when I learned the difference: some people love you, and some love the version of you that doesn’t need anything.

The best thing I ever did, with the help of my therapist, was let the second group go. At first, it’s disorienting - especially when making friends feels as hard as finding a decent partner. But clearing that space made room for kinder souls who understand my care isn’t transactional and that love isn’t a utility.

I leaned back into my high school friends: the ones who knew my messy, bubbly, rambling self and still wanted me around. Later, I stumbled into a group of women from work who felt like old pals from a past life. They reminded me that friendship takes effort but, if someone wants you in their life, they’ll never make you feel like a burden.

Even so, hyper-independence doesn’t vanish overnight. The eldest-daughter voice still whispered, “They’re just being nice, don’t bother them too much.”

When I moved into my condo two years ago, I built almost everything myself - coffee tables, chairs, wardrobe. For months, I refused help. (Except that standing desk - thanks NP!)

My body was still keeping score. PMDD flare-ups came like clockwork whenever I slipped back into doing-it-all-alone mode. But gradually, I started saying yes to small things: rides home, resume reviews, friends carrying groceries. The actions chipped away at decades of doing it alone, and slowly, the episodes grew less frequent.

So when this summer came and I finally let my parents tackle the Tornviken Ikea kitchen island, it felt less like surrender and more like the natural next step.

Letting people who love you help isn’t a single moment. It’s a series of small, earned yeses that slowly teach you how to receive, and that love can truly seep in.

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Believing Era

Eventually, I stopped second-guessing help and started believing: maybe they really do want to be here with me.

My best friend came back from vacation, and I expected her to be full of stories, the beaches, the food, the whole thing. Instead, she texted me and and the first thing she said was: “How are you, really?” She meant it. We yapped for two hours.

A coworker I’d just become friends with spent forty-five minutes before my big interview coaching me on how to walk into that room. “Channel confident white man energy,” she said, half-joking but completely serious. “You know your stuff. Act like it.”

And then there was my 30th birthday. My mom had been suspiciously vague about plans, insisting we were just going for dinner. I walked into my childhood home and nearly everyone I loved was there: high school friends, work friends, university friends. Pink loot bags. A strawberry Paris Baguette cake.

I stood there, overwhelmed, and realized: this is what it looks like when people love you. Not the idea of you. You.

But eldest-daughter autopilot doesn’t shut off just because you’ve done the work. A few weeks ago, I was traveling solo in Seoul, PMSing, exhausted from decision fatigue, and spiraling in my hotel room. I texted my parents who said: “Have you gone to see Hongdae yet?” One line. That’s all it took. I ended up Yeontral Park with this gorgeous line of freshly turned yellow gingko trees.

The irony wasn’t lost on me: my support system helped me see that view even though they weren’t with me. I don’t call that weakness anymore. I recognize it as being human.

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Abundance Era

Love had grown around me, subtly at first, then fully, like the sunlight coming through the gingko leaves. Each act of care, each yes I’d allowed myself to say, compounded into something undeniable: I am deeply loved, and I can let myself be.

It’s changed how I move through the world. I still lean on competence. You have to put in the work to get results, but my first thoughts are for my inner circle now. I think about them constantly: hoping their days go smoothly, that hard things work out, that they feel as held as they’ve made me feel.

Everyone of these lovely humans wants the best for me too. They showed me worthiness isn’t something you discover alone. It’s built in the back-and-forth: the way people show up for you, and you show up for them.

I spent decades proving I could survive alone. Turns out I can, but I don’t need to. Life is infinitely more beautiful, messy, and joyful when you let others in. Oh, and the PMDD? Mellowed into regular PMS.