When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted to be was 30. Thirty, the mark of true adulthood and career success.

In high school, my favorite show was Ugly Betty, which followed America Ferrera's character Betty Suarez through the ranks of New York's fashion world. It helped me put my finger on the type of career woman I aspired to be, walking down the long tiled hallway at MODE magazine in a checkered pantsuit and pair of high heels.

No shade towards Betty, but she wasn't who I wanted to be. Even at 15, I just knew I was going to be the nice version of Wilhelmina Slater, editor in chief, a woman with power style and an executive assistant. My Ugly Betty dream carried me through high school and most of college, it's probably the reason I ended up getting a Master's in Management too.

By the time I finished school, I only had a handful of years to achieve my goal of being 30 and Wilhelmina. My first job was at a nonprofit with short, carpeted hallways and boring cubicles, I was nowhere near being Wilhelmina or even her chic assistant, Marc. Although I was only 22 years old, in my heart I was 30. I wasn't satisfied with the false sense of ownership handed to me in an attempt to keep me content.

I was 18 the first time I went to Paris, I had just graduated high school, so I had 30 on the brain more than ever. My graduation gift was a trip to Europe with my mom and little sister to visit family in Germany. Germany was fine, I guess. I mean, no offense, but it didn't feel like a 30- year-old destination to me. After about two weeks, I was tired of visiting old castles with old furniture and pictures of naked people I didn't know. I wanted to go to France. That's where powerful, stylish women with executive assistants go when they travel to Europe. After some begging, my mom booked us train tickets from Frankfurt to Paris.

The Paris I imagined was MODE magazine, chic tiled hallways and all. The Paris I experienced was the short, carpeted hallways of a nonprofit. From the tiny hotel room we crammed into to the museums with old furniture and pictures of naked people I didn't know ... This Paris getaway was my idea — it is famously always a good idea — but the trip and itinerary weren't mine.

My second job technically had long tiled hallways, but I couldn't wear heels. It was a specialty chemicals company, which didn't really have the glamorous Wilhelmina vibe I was hoping for. I was responsible for a lot more than I'd ever been before, which gave me a sense of importance ... and several panic attacks. The role I was meant to help build didn't actually belong to me because it had to fit the picture of what the powerful "they" wanted. I spent another two and a half years being only slightly satisfied with false claims of power and freedom.

I know complaining about being in Paris is as bratty as it gets, and I was, in fact, a brat on that trip with my family. Hormones raging, I couldn't understand why I wasn't enjoying myself, considering I was in the city of powerful, stylish 30-year-olds. Every little thing that fell short of my Wilhelmina expectations felt like a crisis of self. Paris was not the city I imagined it would be.

Much like the writers of Ugly Betty, who killed off the beloved Molly Meade, that specialty chemicals company had no problem killing off one of their beloved characters (in this case, that's me, but instead of dying, I took a four month severance package). Fortunately, my story arc included a three-month business trip in Switzerland before my final episode.

Fun fact, a lot of the big chemical companies in the world are based in Switzerland for, I'm sure, a good reason. Living in Europe for work was a very 30, very Wilhelmina opportunity that I took without even thinking about it. I was doing my regular American job in a glamorous, at least to me, Swiss building Monday to Friday. And then I had the weekends free for personal travel. A friend from the States let me know she'd be traveling through Europe for the first time and that we should meet up somewhere. That's how I ended up in Paris for a second time, nearly 10 years later.

My second trip to Paris was very 30, very Wilhelmina, and it was all mine. I chose where I stayed, what I saw, what I ate, where I went. I was powerful, stylish and in control of my own itinerary. I smoked a cigaret on the streets of France, which is very chic and 30. This is the Paris I dreamed about.

I work from home now where there is no long, tiled hallway or need to get dressed from the waist down. I don't have an executive assistant, unfortunately, and I'm currently living with my parents — where I launched a business from my childhood bedroom, the same bedroom I used to watch Ugly Betty in as a teenager. I am technically not yet 30 or the editor in chief of a fashion magazine, but I have never felt more 30 or more Wilhelmina. I get to choose the life and the work and the pace I want and need. This is the me I've always dreamed about.