I remember when I was pregnant with my first child, bemoaning the newly-minted stretch marks on my belly. My chiropractor, a woman about 10 years my senior and a mom of 2 herself, gave me some good advice. She advised me not to view the long, pink lines as scars marring my body, but rather as badges of motherhood, to be worn proudly as reminders of this remarkable and transformative stage of my life. I thanked her, and while I liked the idea, I didn’t really fully appreciate the meaning of her sentiment.
I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face.
So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.
As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don’t question myself anymore. I’ve even earned the right to be wrong.