Today marks 10 years since I stood
by my father’s bedside, my hand resting gently on his leg, as he took his last
breath. That was nine days before my 30th birthday. I ventured into
my thirties with a heavy heart and a profound sense of loss. Little did I know
that this was just the beginning of a decade of life changing experiences.
Three years later, at the age of
33, I sat in a hospital waiting room, holding hands with my brother, while my
mother slipped away on the other side of the wall. Six months after that, my
grandmother died of a broken heart, never having gotten over losing her
daughter.
In 2008, at the age of 36, I
uprooted my family and started a new life in a new place. For the first time, I
was really a mom to my kids. I wasn’t just the parent who picked them up from
day care and fed them McDonald’s before kissing them goodnight.
I gave up a lucrative full time legal
career and downsized myself to a part time independent contractor and began
writing. I mean really writing. I made sacrifices to follow my dream and I
published my first book in 2010 at the age of 38.
Now I sit on the brink of turning
40; nine days from today to be exact. It’s a bittersweet feeling. I don’t fear
wrinkles, saggy boobs or gray hair. After the pain, struggles and epiphanies of
my thirties, I don’t live my life so shallowly. I know what's really important.
I treasure my family and the
support they’ve given me. I’m in awe of the friendships I’ve made, some of
which were forged from shared grief, pain and understanding. I value the people who’ve
walked beside me in both the good times and the bad. I give thanks for all the love
I’ve known, even the love that’s been lost.
Fuck crow’s feet and laugh lines.
Who cares? They’re just evidence that I’ve hurt, that I’ve laughed and that I
survived. I made it. So, 40? No sweat. Bring that shit on.
