These years are of becoming.
Grace has appeared. It arrived quietly, slowly, like the whispers of gray sneaking onto our hairlines.
Time has gone by so fast, but we are slowing ourselves down. Taking in moments with awareness and attention. There is less panic in chaos and less reaction in disappointments.
We float, gliding toward something we likely have heard about at a cocktail party or on the other line on the phone. There are pauses and lessons to pay forward.
We have stories to share that are about things other than our kids. Lessons to share with friends and with younger women, who are turning the corners in life, toward the consistency and continuity that lives offline. The children have grown some and this can be hard to witness because we are not a need, mostly, but an alternative.
Reflection has shown up in the halls of our minds. There is a pause before anger. We think before words race through us. We notice that we may have become a bit like our moms and dads—which may have turned our baggage into an unnecessary comment or two. Short fuses and long days push us in the direction of who we now know we don’t want to be, creating more decisive intentions for tomorrow—volition.
We recognize there is a choice, an invitation, to be who we truly are.
The mirrors whisper to us. Sigh, the force of gravity is changing the shape of our cheeks.
Our feet don’t tolerate heels; we wear platforms. We can choose loose dresses that forgive busy schedules that don’t allow for consistent workouts. We wear clear gloss that works better than lipstick because the color won’t run through the lines of our lips.
We don’t need to talk to our life-long friends daily. A group chat lights up when we need them. We laugh at old pictures and hard truths and cry when there is loss. We have moved, are divorced, or are blending families and identities. While it is not visible in our feed, our friends are with us—deeply. Our dreams are not far away and unattainable. They are about what we want to make possible now in this time that we have—the present.
So many things are possible, but they also demand bravery, choice, and sacrifice.
We are adults—just like our parents were in our minds when we were 10 and they were 41. Moments with them, now, are actively and anxiously stored in our memories and hearts. We know that these years are not a given, but a gift.
We learn to talk and pray to angels, the ocean, the cardinals in our backyard, or to the universe and all things unknown because it’s all so delicate as the skin around our eyes, thinned out from the abundance of years and belly laughs.
There is so much grace and beauty, both broken and fully complete. It is all around us. It was all this time—a thing on the other side, a life that would happen later, and a chapter well ahead of where were. Everything before was just a second ago in our thirties.
The years crystalize quickly. It all comes rushing forward so fast.
We begin to allow the unimportant things to slip through our hands as we try to hold on to what matters more tightly. This doesn’t mean anything will stay—and there is something so special about that knowing now.
We are here more fully and walking through these gorgeous moments, albeit tired, day after day.
Seasons passing seasons. Kids growing. Parents aging. It’s a graceful unfolding.
We are walking into 44.
Our people know us and walk with us with a presence that is holy.
It is calm. It is glowing—44 candles are so bright.