In February this year, I was facing the big (hushed tone) 3-0. "Dirty thirty" and "Thriving at thirty" were all social media captions I considered inserting with a picture of myself doing something that looks triumphantly thirty. Whatever that means. Where had all the years gone though? I'd always identified myself as the twenty year old this or that. Even as it became increasingly obvious that I was leaning closer to thirty that twenty, being only two up on the decade registry seemed less worn in. It's like I'd been sucked into a deep surge of ploughing, figuring things out and becoming my own person that when I came up for air, the youthful days that used to give me so much hope for the future had gone. I was in the future. Now what? As I mulled over these things, my husband suggested we take a trip to Hollywood. I'm a film maker who loves to bring the characters inside my head to life through scripts and directing. If I can dream it, it's as good as real to me. Just a matter of putting pen to paper or lens to camera. Going to LA and seeing the all the studios, exploring Beverly Hills and strolling down the walk of fame should have made me scream in excitement. But instead, I found myself coming up with all the things that could go wrong and why this trip was not perfectly timed. First of all, the perfectionist administrator in me cringed at the thought of taking an unplanned journey to another country and continent at the drop of a hat. Hats stay on heads for a good reason. As this travelling wind blew, my husband threw caution to it and I flailed about, hardly keeping up when flights were booked and accomodation confirmed only by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins. So off we went, two African adventurers heading out to the urban New York jungle for a night before jetting off to the lofty Los Angeles horizon the next day. Laborious layover and a wee-hour pick up at the LAX airport later, there we were, settled into our new Orange County address. My jet-lagged mind still couldn't grasp that it ACTUALLY happened. I was in one piece and on the verge of spending my birthday in the city of my creative muse for the VERY FIRST time. I realised my worry had been everything except being present in the moment. Life is not a result. It's a process. Yes, those years had flown as far as our international trip but I was there for every single one. I'd received my 30th milestone with a bags of experience and had to check-in at every new point of conviction. A perspective shifted occurred as we cruised down the famous palm tree route in Beverly Hills. I stepped out in faith and was rewarded with something my conscious self would not allow me to utter, let alone entertain. Turning 30 taught me this: whatever you do, savour the moment. Allow yourself to be surprised and be surprising. Most of all, perfect is not pristine. Sometimes, you've got to ditch the script and ad lib. Stop living from your heart and start living from your heart. Those are the greatest memories you'll ever have.