Yesterday, I realized I am thirty four years old.
I think somewhere I must have known this was true, mathematically, but when I held that number up to the fickle light of my own expectations I fell out of my body for a moment, rattled. I saw blurry visions of what the younger version of myself assumed thirty four years old would look like. It’s a strange thing to time travel through your own memory and temporarily inhabit a daydream from half a lifetime ago. It’s like looking at a portrait of someone else and searching for your own reflection in the glass. Some of the features are similar, but that face is not yours.
When I look around at the texture of thirty four as I am living it, I drop back into my body and feel at home. The shell of what I expected falls away like dead skin and I take the shape of my one wild and precious life. I am at ease in the rhythm of it: the kindness of programming the coffee maker at night for Morning Daryn, the pleasure of cool sheets and heavy blankets, the warmth of tiny hands on my cheeks, the thrill of shiny new roller skates sitting by the door, the pride I feel each time I walk out of my building and see the skyline, the delight of learning something new in weekly writing and acting classes, the comfort of having my family a short drive away, the spaciousness of my single-ness, the anticipation of a weekend away with a friend. Anxiety bubbles up, but far less than before. Pain still knocks on the door, but I am learning to protect my edges.
A month ago, for a little while, I was not okay. Today, I am. I am friendly with my fears and learning to be kind to my inner critic. I will enjoy this thirty four that is mine and not diminish any of it’s fullness to satisfy the expectations of ghosts. This thirty four is a wild success.