I’ve always loved birthdays. My early childhood memories are filled with big parties full of family and friends; beautiful birthday cakes, a pretty new dress, and the gifts, of course the gifts. As I got older, I carried with me the belief that birthdays were a time to laugh, have fun, and to celebrate life. It wasn’t just about a special day to celebrate me, it was a celebration of life; the wonder and beauty of it all. At least it used to be that way, up to a few years ago when turning 40 was a reality that I didn’t want to face.
When I came face to face with 40, I wrote a letter in defiance: 40 would not get the best of me. But today, on the eve of my 41st, I have to admit that I wasn’t as defiant as I painted myself out to be. In some ways, I gave in to all I feared.
It would be easy to be sad about it, to be upset at myself for it, but along with the realization that I didn’t accomplish quite what I intended to, is the realization that the arrival of my 41st year is about much more than the 365 days that preceded it; it encompasses a lifetime of amazing.
In my life…
I’ve made mistakes and learned their lessons. Some I even repeated just to be sure.
I’ve felt fear and faced it head on, sometimes getting knocked right on my ass.
I’ve risked everything I had for the chance to get everything I wanted and came out of it with everything and nothing all at once.
I’ve reinvented myself more times than I can count. My appreciation for life has been so great, I’ve wanted to experience all of it.
So as the clock inches towards midnight, I reinvent myself again. I leave 40 at the door, thank it for its time, and make room for Libby 41.0.