Thirty years ago, I was born. Three decades later, I’ve been educated, married, and even given birth to someone, myself.
I’m in a good place in my life. I’ve learned a lot over the last thirty years. I’ve seen history being made. I’ve fallen in love a few times. I’ve broken my share of hearts. I’ve had a lot of friends and pushed myself places I didn’t know I could go. I’ve been lucky, and I’ve been so blessed. I’ve had some rough times, some sadness, but I’ve laughed a lot in my life.
So I’m thirty.
I’m okay with it. And even though I could probably lie about my age really convincingly, I really don’t care to do it. I’m not sure why people do. I suppose it might have something to do with the perceived value of youth and perkiness inherent in our culture today, teen pop star sex symbols, the booming plastic surgery industry, etc. But I’ve always been one to prefer the natural, the real. And age is one of those things I’ve always wondered why so many try to run from.
We should be valued for the years we’ve lived. We should be proud of the bodies that have carried us along so far, whether they’re carrying a few extra pounds, a little cracked or faded or sagging. I’d rather feel comfortable in my skin than constantly anxious about its “imperfections.” And really, it’s all our little imperfections that make us who we are, real, human and beautiful.
Today, I’m thirty. I’m with my husband and son in our cozy little home in Virginia. I’m lucky. I’m blessed. And looking forward to seeing what the next three decades have in store.