I am a woman in my thirties, and I am thriving. I have a career, a wittily named pet, a book club, a Dyson vacuum, and a red-light therapy mask (the good kind). I have frozen my eggs, which is a sentence that makes me sound empowered and non-perishable. I am strong and curious, but also super chill.

I meditate. I do yoga and ceramics. I wear glasses, because I like how they look and not because I’m bad at putting in contacts. I have recently started to relearn the flute, a hobby I dropped—despite promising childhood talent—nineteen years ago. Every morning, I earthquake my body with flapping arms and bouncy lymphatic jumps. For wellness purposes, I slap my torso, and look like I’m possessed.

When a man on the subway behaves erratically, I join my fellow-passengers in the quiet roleplay of pretending that everything is O.K. I am barely shaken. I live in peace—I hold the pole with two fingers, like a glass of champagne, and look the other way. The train keeps going. Nothing can burst the bubble in which I am listening to Amy Poehler’s podcast.

At the office, I use the wellness room to gua-sha my cheekbones and the noise-cancelling privacy booth to scream. This is work-life balance, and a good use of company resources. I am a competent employee. People rely on me, and I deliver. I am calm—feeling great and not taking myself too seriously.

After work, I go to the gym. I’ve been TikTok-influenced by the new certainty that a woman in her thirties must lift heavy weights. So I do . . . I think. They’re heavy to me.

At home, I watch “Heated Rivalry” to keep my heart rate healthily elevated, but stop early to deprive my brain of stimuli that would limit my ability to sleep eight hours—a high sleep score is a must. I take melatonin, creatine, protein, magnesium, Vitamin D, pickles, collagen, Vitamin C, Zoloft, electrolytes, and, once a week, a probiotic named Kevin.

On the weekends, I stroll to the farmers’ market carrying my culturally significant tote bag and my pug, Virginia Woof. I get an eight-dollar-plus-tip coffee and publicly air my opinions about produce. I buy with generosity, ignorance, and hope—as if nothing is happening, as if the future was laden with butter radishes, heirloom apples, tamely shaped cucumbers, and a mild Korean-inspired chili sauce.

I take a mental-health walk and call my mother. I then take another mental-health walk. I attend a Pilates class where a cheerful woman tells me to “find ease”—and I find ease immediately, no problem.

At night, I’m tired, but in a totally justified way. I place my phone out of reach of my bed, face down. As I complete my skin-care routine, I map the next day in my head. Then I stop worrying. I simply cannot afford to be stressed. Stress is bad for your brain—possibly catastrophic. So I don’t think about stress—or how it contributes to dementia, acne, ulcers, and a general decline in charm—at all. I keep worries out of my head. They instead float tenderly around the bedroom. My worries, which I don’t worry about, tuck me in and rock me to eight hours of sleep. ♦