It’s almost my birthday. Next week I turn thirty-something.

(See what I did there?)

I don’t know if it’s the long week I’ve had, at home with a sick child, or what—but today I’m feeling particularly tired and well, old.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and examine my face. It doesn’t look all that different than it did when I was younger, does it? Yet when I see photos of myself, I think, Is that what I look like? Which one is more accurate—the photo, or the mirror? 

There’s a wrinkle between my eyebrows that wasn’t there before. My cheeks are definitely fuller, my teeth a little more crooked (seven years I wore braces—seven!).

Every morning I have to gently stretch my stiff lower back before getting out of bed. When did that happen?

My body has permanently shifted shapes, the aftermath of two beautiful babies and my love of pizza. I’ve adjusted my wardrobe accordingly.

And yet…

These changes are evidence of a life being lived.

Getting older is a gift, one I cannot take for granted.

Thirty-seven. I’ll be thirty-seven.

This is a month-long series on taking note of the beautiful in the mundane. Catch up on the rest here!

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