37 and Still Going

I wrote my first blog post at 18 in a dorm room that smelled like instant ramen and bad decisions.

37 and Still Going

I’m writing this one at 37 in the kitchen that holds our whole life - coffee rings on the granite, Theo’s latest dinosaur drawing magnetted to the fridge, Sophie’s guitar pick abandoned on the counter. Every version of me led to this one. I like this one best.

Eighteen years of documenting everything. The awkward college photos where I straightened my hair to death. The new mom posts written at 3 AM with spit-up on my shoulder. The gym selfies that take forty-seven tries because I’m not sorry about wanting to look good.

Lost in the words

Somewhere between the girl who was afraid to take up space and the woman who claims the whole frame, I figured out who I was meant to be.

37 and still going. Still running (faster than ever, actually). Still nursing kids back to health on night shifts. Still married to that nerd who holds my phone at the exact right angle without being asked.

Reflecting on 37 years

Still the main character of my own life, and finally old enough to stop apologizing for it. Here’s to the next chapter - I have a feeling it’s going to be the best one yet.