photo by sethdickens
I turn 37 this week.
At work, I can see the Main Street Station tower across I-95. I remember driving to college at William & Mary 20 years ago and seeing that clock tower in the “big city” of Richmond. I thought it represented something so urban, so foreign and grown up. Something I couldn’t imagine ever being.
What would my 17-year-old self think of my 37-year-old self?
“Wow,” she would say. “Look at me all grown up. I have a husband! And a career! And two amazing kids! What happened to me, the shy girl, the girl who was so nervous to talk in class that she’d feel sick? What happened to me, the girl that boys barely glanced at? The girl who was eager yet very scared to leave home?”
That girl got some guts and some courage, and did things people told her weren’t good ideas, like join the Peace Corps. She realized that people weren’t so scary and judgmental after all.
That girl realized that if you want to be connected to other people, you have to make it happen. That girl realized that boys are people too, and that others will find her worthy if she first sees her own self worth.
That girl realized that leaving home doesn’t equal independence, and that no matter how old she is, she always needs her mom and dad.
My 17-year-old self would be impressed at my marriage, amazing kids, independence and career.
My 37-year-old me feels I am a work in progress, as a wife, daughter, mother, friend and co-worker.
I am learning how to have more humor in my marriage, be more patient, to communicate better, to forgive our faults and appreciate our many strengths. I am learning that the Universe knew who my partner should be and, through good times and bad, my husband can make me laugh like nobody else and is my best friend.
I am learning that my kids are not my possession to hold onto and I cannot protect them from everything. I am learning to not feel guilty when I need to rely on members of my ‘village’ to help support me and my family. I am trying not to mourn the fact that my kids are getting older. While I miss them being so little, I love watching them become themselves.
I am learning to see my parents as real people. It makes me love them even more. I am learning to appreciate all that they gave my brother and I, all the gifts of time and energy they devoted to raising us. While my 17-year-old self would be jealous for not living at home any more, my 37-year-old self wishes I could spend more time with my parents. It is a tough pill to swallow every time I remind myself they won’t be here forever.
I am learning that friendship is a fluid concept. I’m learning to tell my friends I love them, that not all friendships need to be deep, and that not all friendships can and do last forever. Some people opt out of being in my life and that is OK.
I have almost learned to not care about what people think of me.
I have almost learned to say what I feel most of the time.
I have almost learned to embrace all these sprouting “sparkly” gray hairs.
I am trying to embrace growing up and growing older as a gift.
I am trying.
My 17-year-old self would say, “Wow. This is some heavy stuff.”
I know, girl. And it’s going to get heavier.
I think about the future and then stop myself because growing up and growing older… well, it has consequences. Consequences I’m not prepared for and never will be.
But Thursday I’ll be 37.
I will eat out with my family and open presents. I will appreciate this moment and all the other moments where I am blessed to have my parents, my husband, my children and my village, whether in person or long-distance, past or present, to celebrate being alive with me.
I think my 17-year-old self would approve.