I turned 32 last week.
I’m no longer the youngest writer in my writer group. I’m no longer the youngest manager and/or director at my company. I’m no longer the youngest member of my book club. I’m 32 freaking years old and…
well, I’m okay with it. I earned those 32 years. Every scar on my face, every cellulite mark, every white hair is a sign that I’ve lived this long and survived. Okay, not just survived but done pretty good for myself.