I Love Getting Older.

This weird thing has been happening lately where I feel kind of confident.

It’s the kind of confidence that comes, perhaps, after you pass your 30th year.

Maybe in the past I would have been terrified by this number with its intimidation and the thudding sound of my own, unkept promise that I should have started using anti-wrinkle creams two and a half years ago and yet I feel at peace.

It’s a luxury to get older.
I love the ways we learn, the ways we settle into our skin, the hardships we face, the things we try out and never do again and all the beautiful ways that we begin to refine our visions of what a fulfilling life means.

It’s simple.
It’s delightful and no-frills at the same time.

It’s taking things less personally, letting some annoying things or humiliating remarks just roll off our shoulders because sometimes it’s just not about us at all.

It’s like knowing that I don’t really care if deep wrinkles emerge around my eyes.

I hope it does as a walking, breathing evidence that I have laughed and lived and cried and been so vividly alive.

That’s what I wish for more than anything.
I hope I have good stories to tell the world, that I have wisdom to grace others, tales of when I messed up and how I rose from the ashes and how I found balance in it all.

But I no longer wish to be reckless like I once was or to run around aimlessly without a clear path.

That felt exhausting to be honest.
And I love being wild but in a different way now, in a heartfelt and vulnerable way, in a way where I can serve others, be grounded and real.

In a way where I can be in the world and in reality which as it turns out is not such a bad place to be.

It’s actually pretty wonderful.
And yes, oh yes, this comes as quite a surprise to my tender heart and often overthinking mind that always thought the world was too harsh and too much to bare.

But I don’t feel that way anymore.
I like all the ways I feel different now and things are more settled.

I’m less afraid.
I don’t have so much to prove.
And I’m not ashamed to admit that I would rather spend a night alone writing and falling asleep well before the stroke of midnight beneath my flannel sheets than out drinking and staying up too late because that’s what I think I “should” do.

So I take all of this seriously, the fact that I’m different now as I‘m 33 in the sweet and brilliant phase.

A page turns and an entire book closes.
Boom, dust ignites in the winter sunlight to form tiny particles of the past.

I look at it, admire and appreciate all the ways it kicked me down.

But I’m silent and still as the past particles are gently carried away by the fragments of hope and time and knowing that I’m ready.

The journey only ever continues.
But I love the feeling of a fresh page.
A new, empty book to splash and spill and take great pleasure in as I write the next story.

The past recedes, the present is here and I greet the future with open arms.

There is mystery, there is uncertainty and yet, there is all the certainty I need.

As I sit,
I feel my feet on the floor,
I feel the container of my body, flesh and bone.

And I close my eyes.
Letting every pore and every cell take in the soft beams of the sunlight.

It’s so soft.
It’s powerful.
I’m different now and it’s a bit awkward, too, it’s gonna take sometime to get used to.

I’m different now, after the trauma, after the drama, after all the highs and lows and all the messy upheavals that come with the territory when we are finding ourselves.

I’m relating to my power in a brand-new way.
And it’s not that I wish to be extra special or have power over others, no thanks, that sounds awful.

But it’s about a healthy, enduring relationship with my power, my voice and all the opportunities that come when we stand a little taller and sit a little more deeply.

And do things with the intention and with the knowing that we matter.

That we can make an impact, speak up, rise, transform, love freaking hard, go for our goals and achieve beautiful things.

I’m different now.
I love getting older.
It’s so sweet.
I love the gripping authenticity of getting older.
I find it so moving.

It’s engraved in all that we know now that we didn’t before, the simplicity and the clarity.

The knowing that boundaries are a really good thing.

The realisation that sometimes limits can actually make things feel juicy and magical.

Structure can be freeing.
Commitment isn’t a drag.
Responsibility is sexy.
Our excuses really do suck.

Old beliefs blow up as we exhale the smoke and see in a new way with softer and more mature eyes.

We get wiser, more patient, more aware and more calm.

And within this there’s such an opportunity for enjoyment, for freedom and for a brand-new adventure.

For us to really own our mistakes, to not be victims, to be strong and soft and real, more ourselves than ever.

Getting older is exciting.
I know our culture seems near obsessed with the fresh sparkle of youth but there’s such depth and beauty in ageing, in the stories, the wrinkles, the grey hairs and truths of our elders and ancestors.

It would be amazing to ask them to grace us with their wisdom and actually listen.

It would be amazing if we looked up close at all what we have learnt through the years and saw our lessons, scars, wrinkles and so-called mistakes as gems.

I love the growing sense that there’s not so much to prove.

I love this feeling of confidence that’s subtle and just right.

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