I'm 47*

Many people would judge me for this.

I’m 47. It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. I’m not married, and I have no children. I’m not a doctor, a lawyer, or a boss ass bitch. I’m not famous. I don’t own a home, or a car, or more clothes than could fit into two firmly packed suitcases.

My wrinkles are getting deeper. I haven’t had botox, despite the encouragement of some younger friends. My hair is turning grey, which I mostly still hide. I have belly fat. I have sun spots. When I don’t wear mascara, my eyes look like tiny dots on my face, each wearing a fanny pack.

Many people would judge me for this.

I’m 47.

I live in peace and safety. I walk to the sea most mornings and sit there with my dog in my lap and sometimes cry from gratitude. I couldn’t do that until recently. I was stuck in the idea that I was a failure because I hadn’t achieved those things most people would judge me for not having achieved. Because I am aging.

For fucksakes.

I’m 47. My family is still alive. So is my dog, whom I love so much I don’t have the means to express it. I live with a dude with one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known, who is willing to walk this path beside me. I eat when I’m hungry. I get paid to do things I’d do for free, some of it with people who have become like family. I now have Turkish family and Syrian family. And recovery family, some of whom I don’t even know but it doesn’t matter—I have recovery, and that saved my life, like it saves millions of people’s lives, and gives millions of people safe spaces to take off their masks and be themselves.

I have really dark hours and days. I get paralyzed with fear about the state of the world more that I used to. I get so afraid I can’t stand up. I’m 47, so my hormones are doing what they call “reverse puberty”, which is as fun as it sounds. Some days I feel like I’m held together by estrogen patches and progesterone pills. But I have access to estrogen patches and progesterone pills. And hospitals, and doctors.

I get to live in a world with #metoo, where people are protesting for Palestine and Black Lives Matter. Where a teenaged girl challenged world leaders about climate change. Where a brown teenaged girl became a Nobel Peace Prize laureate for speaking up for the rights of girls and women to get an education.

I spent my last night of being 46 with five amazing women, all of whom have made choices people could judge them for. Everyone brought ridiculously good food. There were five kinds of cake. We laughed so much I almost peed. (I’m 47.)

I rode home on an electric home through the night. My dog was so happy to see me he almost peed. I forgot that I was given the leftover cake until I found it in the fridge two days later. (I’m 47.) I took the whole container of it outside, and ate it with my fingers, under the sun. Like some kind of goddamn miracle.

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*inspired by this post by Bassem Youssef