When I was a 16 year old I thought people of 30 were old. As a teenager 30 stretched far  off away on the distant horizon somewhere.

I look back on my younger self and laugh and ruefully shake my head. I knew so little but thought I knew so much. My dreams and hopes and ambitions were mainly self seeking.

Now I am in my 40s and I’m enjoying it. It’s freeing in a way. You know yourself better, your quirks, your reactions to circumstances have been honed over time. You start to know your own mind and what you are passionate about. I no longer feel so bound by what other people think about me. I have realised my own worth and the worth of others.

As a woman living in a very visual world I’d be dishonest if I said I never worried about growing older.

I see the signs every day when I look in the mirror. Another new wrinkle, a white eyebrow hair. The slowing down of one phase of my life and the gradual beginning of another.

But it would be callous of me to spend so much time and worry over superficial things when there is so much trouble in the world. When people are dying every day, when they suffer rape and violence and injustice. They do not have time to fret over their age or appearance. They are too busy fighting for their next breath.

We hurtle to the grave at a relentless pace. We must ensure there is life in our years and not just simply years in our lives. We aren’t guaranteed that anyway.

In closing I’ll leave this thought.



Image from pinterest


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