34.

BROtox and Millenial Cringe.

I turned 34 recently, and for weeks leading up to it, I knew I wanted to write something about my feelings (and struggles) with aging. Actually, I’ve wanted to write this piece for a while now—but every time I sat down to do it, it stirred up some kind of internal strife. But here we are. Here’s the piece.

When I was in my 20s, I used to look at my dad—how calm and collected he was in the face of hard situations—and wonder if I’d ever feel that way. If I’d ever be that way. Because back then, I was all angst and hyperreactions to life’s tiniest stressors. My dad, on the other hand, seemed quietly confident. Sure of himself. It never felt like he had any insecurities—at least none that we, his kids, were privy to. And I’d think, “Hmm. That doesn’t feel like me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there.”

I figured that kind of steadiness would come with age. So I spent most of my 20s looking forward to my 30s. I was told your 30s were where it’s at. Back then, I was either overweight, broke, single, in school (undergrad and then law school)—or some delightful combination of the four.

They said once you hit your 30s, you’d be thriving—with a career, a jawline, and a queue of girls just waiting to fall for you

Then I turned 30. I was ready to be THIRTY, FLIRTY, AND THRIVING™.

Spoiler alert: that did not happen.

Me - age 30.

Okay—well, at first it kind of did. But then I realized your 30s just bring a different set of challenges. Suddenly, everyone is talking about preventive Botox (or BROtox, for men), under-eye filler, retinol routines, millennial cringe allegations and lower back pain. As for all those dating “options” I was promised? Nonexistent. What happened? I thought our 30s were supposed to be it.

Honestly—I blame Gen Z. (JK. Maybe only a little.)

The first two years of my 30s were actually great. I was hype to be there. I felt like I was finally refining my sense of style (I was deep in my English lit professor tweed blazer era). I had my skincare routine down. I was chilling.

Me - age 31 - my professor tweed blazer era

Me - age 32

But somewhere around 33, something shifted.

Between a situationship calling me “millennial cringe” (an accusation I vehemently deny—I know what millennial cringe is, and it is not I); a TikTok troll calling me a “Buddha” (read: old man); and multiple potential suitors turning me down because I was “too old” (which, to be fair, they’re entitled to that preference)—I started to feel… damn. Maybe your 30s are not it.

Am I irrelevant now? Did I peak at 29?

I hated that these externalities—random comments, casual rejections, offhand insults - had the power to make me question every little move I was making. This wasn’t the calm, cool, and collected energy my dad carried. Not even close.

I started to have a bit of an identity crisis. I didn’t really relate to many of my peers in their 30s—and to be fair, I never fully related to most South Asian Muslim people my age in Dallas growing up either. They tended to have a more conservative (read: low key judgmental) approach to masculinity, and my creative hobbies were often seen as a liability rather than something to be celebrated.

I’d always gravitated toward younger friends and found a sense of belonging there. That’s where I felt seen. But then—even that started to shift. I was suddenly too young (and too single) to vibe with the “mom and pop” crew… but apparently had too many greys in my beard to hang with the mid-to-late 20-somethings.

At one point, I even considered BROtox—but ultimately decided it didn’t feel right for me. (Genuinely no shade to anyone who’s gotten it.)

But during Ramadan, something in me settled. I was sitting in the masjid during Jumu’ah khutbah, and I noticed two sweet, very cute elderly uncles—probably in their 80s—sitting quietly and listening. They had completely embraced their appearance. No pretense, no performing. They had that same calm, collected, quiet confidence my dad has—maybe even more so.

And for the first time, I remembered what a blessing aging is.

I had spent so much time fighting it—trying to stay trendy, plugged into the cultural zeitgeist (see: TikTok), even entertaining the idea of altering my appearance—only to be reminded that our ultimate purpose and fate have already been written.

The Qur’an, in Surah Al-‘Asr, says that “verily, man is at a loss.” We’re only here for a limited time—and we don’t even know for how long. To age, and to see another day, is an immense mercy. So why was I agonizing over it?

It started to feel… ungrateful.

As 34 started to approach, I began to feel that familiar sense of excitement again—that same levity I felt at 30, 31, and 32. A quiet optimism. For 34, I just really want to feel more secure in who I am—and start taking active steps toward becoming the person I know I want to be. The kind of Muslim I want to be. The kind of son, brother, friend, and eventually, husband.

In a lot of ways, 33 was marked by insecurity—some of it from the outside (rejection, disappointment, situationships that didn’t work out), and some of it from within. Letting myself drift instead of being deliberate. Letting months pass without truly showing up for myself. And I think I’m done with that. I want to move with more conviction. Not just react to life, but really live it. Maybe that’s how my dad, and those two elderly masjid uncles, found their way to that kind of quiet confidence.

I realized that my biggest fear about aging has never been about the physical stuff. It’s not the laugh lines or the slower metabolism—it’s the feeling that time is running out. And sure, time has always been running out. But the older you get, the more fixed your life starts to feel. Your habits harden. Your path narrows. The person you are begins to feel like the final draft instead of a work in progress—and that’s what scares me most.

That the dreams you once held start to feel further away. That your time with your parents shortens. That your circle gets smaller. That the version of you that could’ve been starts to slip quietly out of view.

And maybe that’s why we cling to youth—not just through Botox or filler or trying to stay on-trend—but because youth still holds the promise of possibility. Reinvention. Do-overs.

Maybe that’s what I’m really trying to hold onto—not youth itself, but hope. The kind that says you still get to change. That it’s not too late to become the person you were always meant to be.

So here’s to 34—not a new era, not a reinvention, just a quiet return to who I’ve always hoped I’d be.

Me - age 34.

very (nonchalantly) yours x,
A.Q