Yesterday was my birthday – 35 years young.
And like many people on the wrong end of 25, there’s a little (or some days large) part of me that FREAKS THE HELL OUT with every year that I age.
I see new lines on my forehead; I feel my body aching; and if I ever stopped colouring it, which I won’t, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might find the odd grey hair or two.
A little part of me also thinks about the reality of my life, compared to my dreams as a kid. I’m not the J.K. Rowling of West Yorkshire; nor am I a regular feature on WWE SmackDown, somersaulting from the ring in fishnets and leather. I don’t even OWN my own house! Funny how life works out…
But as much as I could focus on the things I haven’t done, I know that a slight shift in perspective will allow me to see plenty that I have.
Indeed, if you’d have told me that I’d have become a successful teacher, despite crippling social anxiety; that I’d have been brave enough to start my own business, supporting children who like myself, were struggling with their mental health; that I’d have found comfort and love in my poky, little rented house, with a kind and loving man, and three little cats; I wouldn’t have believed you.
One of my friends sees birthdays as levels. Rather than bemoaning another year gone, she congratulated herself lately on reaching level 40.
Another year of wisdom, experience and memories gained. Another year of reasons to be grateful for. So I’m stealing it.
It’s not just 35 – it’s LEVEL 35!
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