Getting older is a funny thing. Especially when you’ve always felt like you’re way older than you are.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with what I’ve deemed (not so affectionately) an age complex. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly causes me to spiral about the years passing me by. I had some big birthday party expectations that ended in disappointment as a kid, which always kinda gave me a weird relationship with my birthday, but for me, it goes even deeper than feeling a little uncomfy in my skin every time June 8 rolls around.
I famously have a pretty terrible memory, but I can remember being 19 as clear as day. It’s a big statement, but I’m making it: it was my biggest year of self discovery, ever. I studied abroad in Italy, started dating my first boyfriend, and I fully embraced new perspectives of the world, of relationships, and most importantly, of myself. What I had initially thought of as a “nothing year,” the last hurdle before I was finally 20, ended up being one of my most formative. But, interestingly enough, though this year was full of all the things that people tell stories about when they regale the good old days of their youth, I felt like an old woman.
I saw so much of the world, and I thought about how there is no possible way I would ever have enough time to see it. I was in a relationship, and I felt that if we didn’t progress at a certain rate, I’d never match up to the relationship-to-white picket fence timeline I had cemented into my brain since birth. At every turn, I was overwhelmed by the speed of life and my inability to keep pace with my own expectations.
I wish I could say this was a fleeting moment, but this deep-seated panic about the inevitability of getting older has had a hold on me for nearly my whole life, and it has manifested itself in a very fragile and volatile relationship with age. I can’t say that society’s pressure on women to follow a specific “acceptable” timeline, my constant awareness of my biological clock, and the fact that I started noticing wrinkles around my eyes when I was 22 has helped.
It reached its peak when I was 24. I had just moved to Spain, ready to immerse myself in this new season, when a global p******* did all but steal what I had declared would be the best years of my life. I could never have predicted that these years are actually what began to soothe this inflamed piece of my perception, allowing a new outlook to gently bloom where a wound had always been.
I learned the beauty of taking things a day at a time, because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. I even learned my favorite Spanish phrase, “poco a poco,” which means “little by little,” a mantra of sorts that I’ve adopted as my own. But really, I owe the largest part of my healing to my friends.
I have filled my life with some of the most youthful people I’ve ever met, who happen to be years ahead of me in age. It’s always these friends who are wide awake at last call (can’t relate) or who are the most confident and relaxed about how their lives are progressing. I see women in their forties holding their sweet babies a table over, and internally, something in me feels lighter. This summer, I’m going to one of my closest friend’s weddings. She’ll be turning 37 soon after.
These women have somehow both given me a roadmap and taken the roadmap away completely, both of which are equally comforting. It has given me freedom from my own expectations, and now I can exhale. Life feels different when you embrace it as it comes to you, knowing deeply that whatever’s meant for you will not pass you by. I’ve learned that aging is a privilege, time yields wisdom and confidence, and sometimes plans are stupid. Don’t get me wrong — those neural pathways run deep. I think this is something I’ll always struggle with to some degree. But wow, does it feel good to actually feel 28 (okay, maybe 29, but progress is progress) on my 28th birthday.
If things had gone the way my sweet, naive, insecure, 19-year-old self had planned, I would be married, probably having my second or third kid, living somewhere in the Southern United States. There’s nothing wrong with that, but wow, thank god that nothing in my life has gone according to plan.
So, here I am. Starting another trip around the sun. Writing this as I sit on an airplane headed to a sleepy island off the coast of Africa with my best friends sitting on either side of me, as I’m covered in poorly applied self tanner, single, and feeling more at home within myself than I ever have. Happy birthday to me — I can’t wait to turn 85.
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