I’m 27 today, and it’s the first birthday I’ve had in which I have felt old or anxious about my age. 27 is chillingly close to 30, after all. Shouldn’t I have accomplished something by now? Achieved some modicum of fame or tweet-able career success? Wasn’t I supposed to have had a passel of sticky, bug-eyed children by this advanced age?
Yet. Aside from the intimations of mortality that 27 brings, I feel very content with my life. If anything, growing older has given me more grace for myself (and hopefully, in tiny degrees, for other people, even though I still score off-the-charts judgmental according to Myers-Briggs).
This year, I’d like to be more capable at giving and receiving grace, however that shakes out in my daily life. I’d like to write more and take the craft of writing more seriously. I’d like to tend to my husband and plants and animals with generosity and patience. I’d like to learn simple conversational French and how to eat food without getting bits of it all over myself.
So. At 27, I feel relaxed about the future, even though death looms.