The journey to 30 starts weeks, months before September 15th. There is brooding involved, as expected. I brood with books for company. Too many to count here. But there is “Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine”, and “Love Lives Here”, and a book on peak performance whose name I don’t remember (and am too lazy to google right now). This book convinces me to take the plunge and delete my social media accounts. I start with Facebook. Then Twitter. Then Instagram. 11 years of memories and identity carefully archived, and then summarily removed from the Internet. It doesn’t bring the catharsis I hope. But it is a good first step. An old friend reaches out on Google Chat (who uses that?!)  to ask how my writing is doing. I tell him what seems like the truth. That it’s dead for now. But even I don’t believe it. **** In 2017, I followed a colleague from work who volunteers with St Vincent De Paul to the Island Maternity Hospital. She was going to check on a young …