I don’t even know what this blog is about yet. I just know something has been sitting with me lately, and apparently my brain decided to work through it via a dream… involving chocolate pudding. So here we are.
I’ve always worked in places where people were my age or older, so age was never really a thing. It was just a number. But lately, I realized I’ve become one of the oldest people in the room. Not ancient. Not “where’s my walker” old. Just… the one with the most life experience. And somehow that hits different.
I don’t feel old. I don’t think I look old. But I can feel the shift. The quiet repositioning. The way younger people look at you less like a peer and more like a responsible adult. Like someone who probably has snacks in their purse and knows how to file taxes. The energy changes from “she’s cool” to “she’s safe.” Which is flattering… but also, excuse me, I’m still cool.
And no, this isn’t about wanting to go to happy hour or trying to relive my 20s. You couldn’t pay me to stay out past 9:30 on a weeknight. This isn’t about wanting to be young again. It’s about realizing that even when you still feel vibrant, funny, and slightly chaotic in the best way, the world starts putting you in a different box.
Part of this is probably because I had my kids young. I got married at 21 (which now feels like something that should’ve required a permission slip), had my first baby at 23, and my second before I turned 24. So now, at 45, I have a 20 and a 21-year-old. Full-grown humans. With beards. And when people find out I’m their mom, they’re shocked. Which should make me feel like I’m winning, right?
But then I stand in front of the mirror.
Suddenly I’m analyzing every wrinkle like I’m an FBI investigator. Counting grays like they’re trying to form a rebellion. Even though I’ve had gray hair since my 20s and survived just fine. Even though I know aging is biology, stress, genetics, and life doing what life does. Still… here I am, casually Googling Botox like it’s not a personality shift.
Not because I hate who I am.
But because I’m trying to locate myself again.
And then came the dream.
In it, I decided I was going to be extra sweet at work. No complaining. No irritation. Just calm, nurturing energy. So I was in the kitchen making chocolate pudding for everyone (because obviously that’s how maturity shows up), and someone joked, “Here’s the mommy of the group making us dessert.”
I woke up in actual tears.
Not because they were mean.
Not because it was offensive.
But because something inside me whispered,
“When did I stop being the cool girl?”
It used to be, “You’re 33? You’re a baby!”
Now it’s, “You’re 45? I never would’ve guessed.”
Which is technically a compliment… but also a reminder that 45 is now considered a shocking number.
And honestly, our generation looks good. We don’t look like 45 used to look. The Golden Girls were my age and they were already calling it a wrap. Meanwhile, we’re lifting weights, drinking protein shakes, and debating collagen powders. We’re aging… but make it modern.
So maybe this isn’t about wanting to be younger.
Maybe it’s about realizing that aging isn’t about losing beauty.
It’s about shifting identity.
You trade:
- novelty for depth
- chaos for clarity
- being “the cool girl” for being the grounded one
And that’s powerful… even if it sometimes feels like,
“Wow, I became the mom of the group without even getting a ceremony.”
So if you’re in your 40s and you occasionally stare at the mirror wondering when this transition happened, just know you’re not alone. You didn’t lose your spark. You just upgraded it.
Still cool.
Just with better boundaries and probably better skincare.
Affirmation Of Visions 