I turned 38 a couple of days ago and to be completely honest, I was pretty depressed. I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that I was nearing 40. FOR-TY. FOUR DECADES.
I felt I hadn’t quite ‘achieved’ enough in my 38 years of existence. But when I asked myself what I was expecting to achieve, I couldn’t answer that question.
When it came right down to it – I think I am not the best version of myself.
I could be a better wife, a better mum, a better daughter. I could be smarter. I could be thinner. I could be fitter. I could be healthier. I could be nicer, kinder, more patient, more grateful. I could be happier? I could be more confident. I could be less emotional. The list goes on.
So, I did the only thing I could do under these circumstances. I took the day off. I wandered around. I sat and drank a cup of coffee and watched people walk by. I contemplated.
When did my birthday switch from a celebration of how awesome I am to how awful I have been? When did my birthday start making me feel like I had to stop and consider my very existence? Am I feeling my mortality now???
Wish I could pretend it wasn’t my birthday.