Tonight I had a conversation that stirred something in me.
In my teens and twenties, I lived a sheltered kind of life — not out of choice, but circumstance. I was raising children while I was still a child myself. By twenty-seven, I had five kids, and my eldest was about to start high school.
Those two decades were a blur of studying and working from home. I missed the chance to interact with the world — to meet different
people, to learn what a red flag looked like. I took people at face value and genuinely believed everyone wanted the best for me.
This year, as I turned thirty-six, I looked in the mirror and noticed the fine lines creeping in. For a moment, they scared me — but they also reminded me how much I’ve lived, loved, and learned. With every wrinkle came wisdom, and with that wisdom, a quiet kind of grief.
The grief of outgrowing people and places.
Ideas. Dreams. Versions of myself I once thought I’d be forever.
Maybe most people, as they approach forty, start to slow down. But me? I feel like I’m only just beginning to live. It’s a strange tug-of-war inside — one part of me whispering, life is short, live boldly, and the other urging, slow down, breathe, find peace.
The one thing I know for sure is this: peace means more to me now than validation ever did.
I’ve learned that not everyone deserves access to my mind — let alone an explanation.
And sometimes silence is the kindest, most powerful response you can give.
Maybe the magic of aging isn’t what we lose — it’s what we finally see clearly.
I don’t want to be her again.
I just wish I could love the world with her naïve heart, armed with my wiser soul.
