46 years, 364 days
Tomorrow, I will turn 47. That means that today, I’ve been in this world for 17,154 days. That’s a long time to have already lived. I was telling Justin this morning that in the past, on the day before my birthday, I usually would think about the things I haven’t done: The changes unmade, the pounds undropped, the relationships unforged. I’ve always been pretty hard on myself. I expect a lot of myself, but I also see (glaringly) where I fall short of my own unrealistic expectations. But finally, gently, year by year, grace is breaking through. The same grace I try to extend to others in my life is beginning to take root in my daily existence. I could sit here tonight and write about all that I’m not, all that I haven’t accomplished, and all that I don’t do. But as I scoot closer to 50 than to 40, I’ve decided that I’m going to celebrate. I’m going to celebrate the moments, the people, the real, the grit, the pain, and the soul-deep JOY that life is. There’s something sobering about re