From Thirty-Five to Whenever I Am
Thirty-five, to me, was grown-up. I was sure.
Thirty-five, to me, was grown-up. I was sure.
By thirty-five, I would finally look like an adult — you know, have more cheekbone and less cheek.
My voice would have grown deeper and more confident, and I would call myself a woman instead of a girl.
By thirty-five, I would know my passions and feel a sense of belonging in society.
I would have a partner and perhaps even a family. I would have an understanding of my purpose in this lifetime.
For a human who thinks she is always right, this takes a lot of courage to admit: oh, how I was wrong!
From thirty-five, I understand that I will never look like the woman in my head — the adult version of myself — and that I am a woman nevertheless.
I see that aging is a gradual, barely-noticeable process of a childhood appearance developing an occasional wrinkle or shiny, unwieldy strand of hair; of new freckles and first cavities in a mouth of teeth that dentists used to call perfect; of preferences turning into habits and peculiarities becoming eccentric.
Thirty-five years is long enough to get to know a body as it slowly evolves moment by moment, smile by smile, and tear by tear — and to imagine it one day looking like a wrinkly thirty-five-year-old me with white hair and chubby cheeks.
From thirty-five, I know that there is no such thing as “grown-up” — that nobody is sure of anything in life, regardless of their age or the stability they seem to have cultivated.
From thirty-five to whenever I am, this is a reminder to take care of my birthday suit (yes, that’s all a body is), appreciate it for allowing me to travel through the journey of my life, and to recognize that I am infinitely more than appearances seem to let on.
From thirty-five to whenever I am, this is a reminder that I exist beyond age and time.
