I am absolutely dumbfounded that I am 50. Like, it doesn’t feel like I should be this old. Like I’ve had that many years on the planet. Like I’ve reached that time in my life that I’m most definitely in decline. Perimenopause. White hairs. Sagging skin. So many moles. Creaky joints. Body slowly failing. And so, so out of touch with emerging youth culture.

For months I’ve been trying to wrap my head around turning 50, and in one sense, it has worked. The number 50, the digits 5 and 0, I’m used to looking at now. But the concept of being 50, what that means for how far in my life I’ve come, how much closer to death I am… it messes with my head.

Especially with my father having died earlier this year just shy of turning 80. That feeling of a buffer between me and old age is gone. Kind of like when you know you have to do something the next month, and as long as it’s still the previous month you know you still have plenty of time. But once the calendar flips over, it seems like the time is ticking away, faster and faster.

I feel like I don’t have 50 years of memories and accomplishments to look back on. I’ve barely started knocking things off my wish list of what I want to get done in my life. But then I remember that I’ve spent the last more-than-20-years raising my kids, with parenting and homeschooling being my main and favorite job.

Time is weird. I just hope to be as mentally present as I can be for the rest of my life, and to make the most of at least the next couple of decades.

Let’s see what I can accomplish, eh?

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