Here's what turning 29 really feels like

My early twenties were horrid. Swept with anxiety, deadlines, internships, job and grad-school applications, crippling self-esteem issues, and a crumbling romantic relationship—my sense of self was turbulent, at best. A Type-A personality, overly eager to seem ambitious, swayed by editors who were smarter and on safer footing in newsrooms, self-conscious ramblings constantly used to spill from my mouth. It is also alarming to me how often I thought about myself in third person, internalising the gaze of the people I worked for, and predicting next month’s mood based on how much they loved me. Which is why I was surprised that when I met a friend recently, they told me that they were daunted at the prospect of speaking to me during a long internship stint, because I seemed “sorted, calm, levelheaded.” I will chalk this discrepancy up to us being overly tuned to the thoughts of others, but little regard for the actual self.

In my late twenties, I am less prone to the melodrama of being perceived, and perceiving. I have settled into my own skin far better than I thought I could have at one point, and have also become less interested in myself. Critiques don’t knock the wind from my chest. Praise doesn’t pull the earth under my feet. (Maybe sometimes it does.) Overall, I have become tempered and humble, a speck in the universe. This year, I am turning 29, and so is Cosmopolitan India.

It is an odd age. We are both too old for Leonardo DiCaprio, who some graphs on the internet will tell you doesn’t like to date women above the age of 25. We are also zillennials—very much on the cusp of two generations, growing up on Buzzfeed content by millennials and complicit in “skibidi toilet” and “hakla” brainrot of Gen Z. We are just shy of a few years to consider Botox, but we are old enough for an “anti-ageing” cream, and to be considered of a “marriageable age”.

Re-scripting ideas 

Cosmopolitan is a storied brand, anyone who is alive and consumes English-language content is aware of this legacy. Started in 1886 in New York City, it has 139 years' worth of history under its belt. The magazine’s inclination towards relationships, love, sex, pop culture, and beauty is well known. But this description does little to outline its philosophical tilt, which can only be summarised by an iconic (borrowed) saying from the iconic Helen Gurley Brown, who was the editor-in-chief of the magazine for 32 years: “Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere”.

Now, for the anniversary (mine and Cosmo India’s!), when we were ideating how to acknowledge 29, we were coming up short. There is little vocabulary to address it, because it is very much part of the middle, yet in that lonely position of almost crossing the finish line and reaching a more legitimate number—30. 

Legitimacy is a fraught concept. I can respect that. I am certainly not waiting for the clock to strike 00:00 am on the day of my birthday to sit with a journal and introspect about the time that was. But the dramatic arc of this decade is apparent to me. I used to work for 16 hours a day, and despite that exploitative gig, I felt grateful, even with no financial returns to show for it. I don’t judge myself for that. Perspective was limited, and negotiating power even more so.

Now with a stable job, it feels easy to assume arrogance at times. Why was I so vulnerable to the whims of anyone who was remotely interesting? This included great authors, a friend who loved Kate Bush too much, a girl in college with a terrific fashion sense, and a professor who proclaimed to be a Marxist and carried an old Nokia phone. 

I am not charmed as easily. It means I have found solid ground, but there is also a loss in that. This is the uncomfortable aspect of ageing I have had to reckon with, which is that I am jaded. Little things that could be a source of wonder, don’t move me anymore. They feel “cute”, and, at most, endearing. I am discerning but also hardened. Some will call this transition inevitable, yet, I have this fear that I would never be able to yearn for things with the reckless abandon that I could a few years ago, as a result of which, I would be a lesser version of myself in some way.

This paradox of having some of my impulses dulled, but also slipping into a skin that feels more “me”, is not lost on me. A lot of articles on ageing refer to senior citizens, or a perfectly rounded off number. 29, 34, 46 are not a sexy focus. Regardless, the last year of my twenties will not be spent in dread for what is about to come, especially when growing older has felt like nothing but a respite.

This article first appeared in Cosmopolitan India's September-October 2025 print edition.

Lead image: Shutterstock

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