Thirty-Five Years Old: I'm Perfectly Imperfect

Three weeks ago I celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday, and I'll be honest... this season of my life requires less validation, perfection and tidyness. My thirties are clearly my best time of life yet, and as I edge closer and closer to my forties I do believe they'll trump this decade with even betterness (I know... bad grammer). The forties will have to wait... I'm busy enjoy my thirties.

I recognize that this year in particular has been a huge year of growth, and maturity for me. It has been a rowdy, messy and really emotional (that last one probably doesn't come as a surprise to most of you) year. 

It is often painful when change is effectively taking place in the heart of a person. It is for me. In the midst, change feels real, honest and freeing; scary, vulnerable and messy. In January I acknowledged my lifelong struggle with depression. When you put a name on something, it becomes real, and for me, the depression took a dark turn. It was like for the first time I didn't run or hide... I stood in the wake and felt all the feels. In the midst of those feels, I recognized how deep this illness has crept into my life; how it defined all the many parts of me and how I acted (or reacted) out my every day. I could no longer be defined by depression. 

Among all of these revelations about myself and my psyche, it became evident that I needed to stop the attempt at perfection. Good enough is good enough. It takes practice to leave the house without makeup or showering, to let the house be messy when friends come over, and to wear the same pants every day for a week, because I'm tired and there aren't any clean ones. It takes discipline to believe that all the imperfect things in my life do not define me as a person. Sure, perfection has it's appropriate place in everyone's life, but when that perfection is not achieved it's okay. I can try again tomorrow, or the day after that.

The irony? When I'm good to myself, I'm good to others; and all of that feels good.

Anyway, here I am... thirty-five years old! That seriously sounds old, you guys. The most darling, sweet thing: my husband says I look young for my age. I'll take it! Ha ha... the irony of that is, I don't really care about my greying hair, my sagging eyelids, and crows feet. Vanity seems to have taken a back seat for awhile. While she's back there, I'll continue to work on my heart and soul, because as most of us know, the seasons of darkness comes and go. Learning to keep myself on track while facing the dark is a challenge I just may have mastered by the time forty-five rolls around; and if not, I'll try to have it mastered by fifty-five.