a year older

today I turn 32

A year older. Hopefully a year wiser. Here’s what nobody tells you about wisdom: it’s not a revelation, it’s an accumulation. Quiet, unglamorous, and mostly earned the hard way. I say no without the paragraph-long explanation that used to follow it. I know which friendships are worth protecting and I actually protect them. I’ve come to terms with the fact that toddlers are feral little geniuses and there is nothing to be done about it. My skincare routine is locked, loaded, and non-negotiable. And I have arrived, with complete peace in my heart, at the conclusion that the greatest luxury in my life is fresh sheets, a hot shower, and nobody needing anything from me by 9pm. Growth looked different in my head. I’m not mad about the reality.

I’ve always loved birthdays. Mine, yours, theirs, all of them. There’s something about carving out one day a year to say you exist and that matters that feels necessary. Because a year holds so much, a year can be a triumph. A year can be an emotional demolition derby. Maybe you thrived. Maybe you survived. Both are valid. Both are needed. The hard years are what make the great ones feel so damn grand. I feel the same way about cold plunges. If you can start your day with 30-degree water up to your neck, everything else that happens feels manageable by comparison. Don’t come for me.

31 to 32 felt like a lot. In the best way, and in the very real, very messy way. I’m raising a wild, opinionated, brilliant little girl. I’m a wife, a friend. I cook, I host, I run an event space, I’m a private chef, and a year ago I started a podcast called Campers. I still don’t have a clean title for what I do. I’ve stopped looking for one.

What I do know is that this year became about something specific: figuring out how food and motherhood live together. Not balanced. Not separated into neat compartments. Just honestly, messily blended, because that’s what my life actually looks like.

This past weekend I hosted the first Latching On panel. Three panels, three different corners of motherhood. This one: pregnancy, lactation, and the fourth trimester. I'll be honest, it hit harder than I expected.

The room was full in a way that had nothing to do with capacity. It was open. Raw. There was food, there were recipes, but what actually filled that room was the permission to talk about something that somehow still feels taboo. Early motherhood is not soft or poetic. It’s hormones and identity loss and a body that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. It’s no sleep and no roadmap and an unspoken expectation to just bounce back. Handle it. Move on.

Motherhood changes you completely. You don’t return to who you were before. I don’t think you’re supposed to.

So I stopped trying to find my way back. I’m building forward instead, for me, and for every mom who is still in the thick of it. Two more Latching On panels to come. This year is about blending my food life with my mother life. Turns out they were never that separate to begin with.

This year had doubts. Disappointments. Days I overworked and days I stopped mid-task and thought, girl, what the actual f** are you doing??? But through all of it, I have never trusted my intuition more. And let me tell you, that feeling? It’s everything. I found my path. I’m on it. I’m trusting it.

For years I was doing without knowing where I was going. That lost feeling is consuming when it sets in, and it did. I can’t know what the future holds and honestly, I wouldn’t want to, but for the first time, I believe it’s bright.

I love my 30s. I needed them. The clock struck 30 and something in me shifted. I became an adult and a parent within the same month. I gave birth one month before I turned 30, which feels like the universe’s way of making sure I got the memo. No easing in. Just: here’s a human, good luck.

My 20s, though. I’m honestly surprised I remember as much of them as I do. Little to no responsibility, decisions made based on whichever way the wind blew, and I could drink you under the table and still be at work at 9am with a smile. My 20s are where I fell in love with hospitality, with the energy of it, the people, the beautiful chaos. I just had to fine-tune the relationship a little. The 30s helped with that.

31 to 32, something clicked. I know what I want. I’m not scared of the work it takes to get there. The late nights are fewer (though listen, a party girl is always a party girl. I’m not a monk). My love for my growing daughter is the kind that doesn’t have language yet. My marriage has quietly become something I’m proud of: two people who used to be just partners, figuring out in real time what it looks like to actually build something together. And my friendships? I’ve stopped apologizing for what they look like. An unanswered text chain. A meme sent at midnight. Three missed calls, no voicemail. And then, out of nowhere: “I have an hour, want to grab a glass of wine?” Yes. Always yes. Those are my people.

The little things bring me more joy than they ever have. A perfect plate of pasta eaten in silence. An episode of something good with zero interruptions (rare). A walk in the sun. A date with my husband. Pressing purchase on something I don’t need but want, and being able to.

This year has been positive with a side of imbalance and challenge. I had loss. Grief has a way of sitting next to joy without apology, and this year I let them coexist. It made the good moments feel more intentional, more chosen. You don’t take the quiet Tuesday nights for granted when you know how fast things can change.

Now. About birthdays. I don’t just love them. I love celebrating them. And those celebrations come in all shapes and sizes.

This year I had a vision. A big one. A birthday bash in my own home — bartenders, dim lighting, fried chicken and caviar, the perfect outfit, and everyone I love in one room. I made a guest list. I got excited. I started planning. Then March arrived, and March had other ideas. Multiple events. A panel. Recipe development. A toddler. Sleepless nights. Two days into planning, I looked at my life and said, very clearly: f** no.*

And so instead, as I write this, I am on a plane with my headphones in, currently listening to “The Thrill Is Gone” by B.B. King, 41 minutes from Aruba. No child. No guest list. No bartenders. Just my husband, two books, and comfortable clothes. My only plan is to find a good spot and stay in it for as long as humanly possible while eating mounds of fruit and sipping on a skinny marg.

This year taught me a lot. But more than anything, it taught me to listen to what you actually need. Your intuition will let you know. Mine told me to get on the plane.

32, you have arrived, and I’m ready for you!

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March Playlist - She’s all over the place. Just like I like it…….welcome to my brain.

xx

Gina