45

The only time I felt old was when I was very young—when I had no control, autonomy, or true way to advocate for myself—when I was subject to the moods and whims of adults who were subject to the moods and whims of other adults.  I didn’t have the luxury of being a kid because my safety depended on my growing up. I needed to stay vigilant  because if I wasn’t paying attention, who would? 

Getting older is a tragic gift, as we have to lose pieces of ourselves to become something more. Like everyone, I have experienced disappointments, challenges, and heartbreaks. There are words and actions I wish I could take back or erase. But there is also peace and freedom in accepting that life is messy. You can’t make everyone like you. You can’t get it right every time. You just can’t.

At forty-five, I feel safer than I ever did in childhood. I feel stronger and smarter, and in certain lighting, even hotter. (New boobs help) I’ve learned by fucking up as much as I’ve learned from any self-help book or lecture. I’ve learned from my children as much as I’ve learned from any professor or doctor.

We all get the same amount of time. And eventually, we all turn to dust. I know that I will never be perfect. But I am not going to stop trying to be better. I want to win at life... at least to the extent that an eventual corpse can win. 

I don’t want to be younger than I am, because staying the same age would also mean that I have stopped growing. And there is still so much growing to do. 

Life really is nothing but process. It’s sitting in front of a pottery wheel that never stops spinning. It’s building, then destroying, and then building back up again. It’s constant change. It’s constant evolution.

I’m living a life that twelve-year-old Jenny would have never thought possible. She would have laughed, or maybe cried. But she wouldn’t have had the audacity or hubris to believe it. 

My husband. My sons. My family. My friends…. And I’m still not dust.

It’s all such a goddamned gift.