It was a cool October morning in Atlanta, and it was my birthday. My thirtieth birthday. I was actually looking forward to turning thirty – I felt like it represented being a lot smarter and more confident than I had been for much of my twenties,and it might even help with losing some of the youth handicap that I felt like the twenties could often provide in the eyes of older colleagues in the professional world (I was, after all, getting grey hair at an increasingly rapid pace). In the weeks leading up to the big day, I’d gotten excited about thirty and had come to like my soon to be age.

Until I realized, I’d focused on professional pursuits with lots of intensity for the past decade, and I’d neglected my health, my well-being, and to some extent as a result, my happiness. So for my thirtieth birthday, I decided my gift to myself wouldn’t be something extravagant like a new car or a trip, or something fun like golf lessons or a new electronic gadget, but something healthy – a consult with a nutritionist. Seemed like a good idea. » Read more: Laying Foundations