This week is my birthday, and it’s a milestone birthday (of sorts). It’s strangely bitter-sweet for me. As a middle child in a fairly large family, my birthday was always my favorite time of year. When life is never about you, it was amazing to have it completely revolve around me for one perfect day. But now that I am older, my birthday can’t revolve around me. It just can’t. Because with small children, every day is about them, as it should be. I am, however, hoping for a really amazing birthday, so getting older doesn’t come with that jagged-edge that I’m trying pretty hard to ignore.
I’m a self-reflective person by nature, so this time of year always gets me thinking. Have I accomplished enough? Have I been the kind of person I want to be? The truth is, I thought I’d be much further along in my writing career by now, but I also have things that ten years ago I only dreamed about. With all the things I haven’t accomplished, I can look at the loves of my life, my husband and children, and know that I am luckier than I could have ever hoped to be.
But I still don’t have to like that I’m getting older.