When I was a teenager, I babysat for a sweet little family down the street. A mom, a dad, and two kids under 5. The baby was probably around a year old. Tragically, one day, my mother sat me down in our living room and told me that the mom had passed away suddenly. Two innocent little children and their dad were now left to figure this world out on their own.
Over the years, as I’ve watched my own kids grow, I have thought about their family many times. My parents have long since moved away from the street where I grew up, and I have no idea what path their lives took. But the fact that those kids grew up without their mom, the fact that she didn’t get to see what little people and then big people they turned into, the fact that she didn’t get to take their first day of school pictures over the years and take her daughter prom dress shopping or dance with her son at his wedding… She missed so much. And thinking of her gives me a dose of perspective about what really matters.
I turn 45 day—in this body. I just worked out and my muscles are sore. My body weighs more than it ever has. It has more fat on it than it ever has. I have more gray hairs than I’ve ever had. Wrinkles too.
45 sounds old to me. I remember when I was a kid and my parents were in their 30s, I thought of them as grownups. But in their 40s? That was OLD. And here I am. My kids probably think I’m old. And in some ways, I am.
But holy sh*t am I grateful that I’m still here. I’m grateful that I get to be here to teach my 16yo to drive (terrifying as it may be). I’m grateful my 14yo forced me to get Snapchat so she can send me cute pics and messages that maintain our “streak.” I’m grateful I was there when my 12yo had a bad dream the other night and asked me to lay with him until he fell back asleep.
According to the anti-aging / diet culture we live in, 45 means I should be very invested in, well, not looking 45. According to them, I should be dying things and tightening things and working really, really hard to get smaller—to get back to the body I had 10, 20 years ago.
Except it isn’t 10, 20 years ago. It’s today. And this is what I’m working with—cellulite, wrinkles, grays, maybe a rogue chin hair now and then.
One of my close friends has been battling breast cancer for the past year, which means she hasn’t had the energy to even go for a walk most days. She’s finally in remission and her hair is growing back. Her strength is starting to return too, but it’s slow-going.
But she’s here. She’ll be able to take her daughters dress shopping for homecoming this fall. And listen to their stories as they spill all the hottest tea from school. And hopefully soon, going for a walk won’t be as much work for her body.
45 years is a gift. A gift I was not promised, as none of us is. I feel grateful today for this body and for this life. And I vow to keep taking care of it. I’ll keep exercising and drinking water. But I’ll also keep living life and eating foods I love and wearing clothes that fit whatever body I wake up in.
Tonight I’m going out to celebrate and I’ll drink whatever I want and eat whatever I want because that’s what birthdays are for. And tomorrow I’ll wake up grateful for another day. Grateful that baseball and tennis start soon and I’ll be there to cheer on my kids. Grateful that my daughter asked me to take her shopping tomorrow and that I’m here to take her (and probably get boba teas while we’re out because of course we will).
Cheers to 45. 💜
(Also, yes, these pants are like 10 years old and have a hole in them. They still get the job done.)
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