I’m 90.
But today, I woke up in my 32-year-old body.
I was awakened from a dead sleep by the spirited meows of a tiny black cat, demanding to be fed.
My eyes snap open—Kitty.
She jumps on my chest, and I cradle her sweet little face in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers. For all of the cats I’ve had since, none could quite live up to her.
I roll to my left—my gorgeous husband.
I throw myself on his warm, sturdy body. I inhale and let myself melt in as he sleepily kisses me on the neck.
As I come to, I remember where I am in this season of life. My feet hit the ground, and I whisk myself outside. I am immediately greeted by a golden pink sunrise. I close my eyes, feel the cold grass under my toes, and take a deep breath in as the cool, crisp desert air, perfumed by juniper and sage brush, fill my lungs.
I return to the house and take in the scene. The cat is sitting on the couch, waiting for me to start my morning meditation. I give her a pat but skip the meditation, now equipped with the wisdom that there is no better meditation than to be fully engaged in life.
Besides, there are far too many things I want to experience today.
—
As I undress to shower, I catch myself in the mirror—stunned.
After a beat, a pang of regret—how much time did I waste believing I was anything other than the most stunning creature to ever walk the planet?
I towel myself off and return to the bedroom, clocking my journal on the nightstand. I pick it up and thumb through its pages. I silently snicker as tears fill my eyes—So much pain and uncertainty in these pages, so much self-doubt and second-guessing—but I know how it all pans out.
I am filled with reverence for this version of me—this 32-year-old version of me—who put the weight of her future, my future, on her back and carried me. Who marched forward, even when the load was too heavy to bear. Who took the steps so that I might be able to exist now, in peace, free.
She doesn’t know me, but I know her.
And I couldn’t love her more.
—
Today, I’m doing it all: climbing mountains, scaling cliffs, jumping in a cold lake, and laying on a warm rock, letting my strong and supple body be dried by the sun.
And I’m going to Dance. Oh, how I long to spend as much of this day dancing as possible.
What they don’t tell you about getting older is that, along the way, you don’t just lose a step or two. As your capacity to move your body decreases, so does your ability to express. The soul becomes bottled.
Today, I’m going to shake the bottle.
—
To end the day, I cooked an elaborate meal for friends, and we sat outside around the fire, looking at the stars, laughing until our stomachs hurt. I couldn’t help but well-up with gratitude. What a gorgeous, full life I lived. When I was in it, it didn’t always feel that way. I wasted so much time worrying about how I measured up, what other people thought, trying to control how they perceived me, questioning my worth and place in the world, and focusing on things that ultimately didn’t matter.
Being human is not an easy task—it’s messy and stressful and heartbreaking. But it’s also overwhelmingly beautiful. It’s only a matter of what you choose to focus on. We are alive for only the briefest moment. But the size of the moment doesn’t measure its depth, its impact, its reverberation throughout time.
Tonight, I’m going to sleep in my 32-year-old body. Tomorrow, I will wake up 90 again. When I wake, I will have a pep in my step—the residue of today still living in my bones. And I will be at peace with the life I lived—the gifts of every version of my that got me here written on my soul.
I doubt anything I write will change someone as much as this has affected me, but because of it, I will continue to write.
Oh, WHAT a beautiful post this was. Thank you for this! 🥹🌸