I found myself vulnerable and a bit afraid in my doctor’s office today. As we discussed plans for my health, I was unable to focus on the context of the conversation, and fixated on a certain phrase which was frequently repeated: “In young women we would do xyz, yet, as women get older, we tend to try abc.”
How ironic, that in a just a few days I will be celebrating –THIRTY– years of life, yet only this afternoon did it occur to me that I am no longer amongst the demographic of “young women.”
It was sobering, really.
All day I’ve reflected on this — this shift and transition into a new decade. Here is what I’ve decided:
If thirty means being able to walk into a room and (finally) feel comfortable in my own skin, then come on, thirty.
If thirty means realizing the fragility of my time on earth, and deciding not to waste one more damn moment of it, then let’s do this, thirty.
If thirty means falling into bed at night exhausted but completely and wholly filled to the brim with gratitude for every-single-second, then please, come get me, thirty.
If thirty means another morning, another sunrise, another chance to live and love and learn and laugh, then yes. Yes, I am ready, thirty.
If thirty means I’m standing in the sunlight with my heart beating and my arms embracing, then please God, let me be thirty.
(How can it be over when it’s only just beginning?)
Here’s to thirty.