Next week I turn 32.
Growing older has never been an issue for me, probably because most of my life I have done things while being younger than my counterparts…
But 32 feels different.
32 feels old. I don’t know if it’s because now I have a grown ups’ job, or because very soon both kids will be in school (and no longer the “very young” moniker I am so comfortable with giving them). I don’t know if it’s because it’s coming up for a decade since I said yes to Phil on one knee or if it’s the number itself that feels different.
But 32 is definitely not 30, and absolutely not part of my twenties.
Which is fine, your twenties are over rated. And 29/30 were my most confident years, despite being difficult ones. But 31 … Well its had other challenges and lessons. And maybe that’s it. I’m more aware, more humble and more ambitious than I’ve ever been.
There are moments when time feels like it is slipping through my fingers. The boys seem bigger every time I look at them; my goals seem unmanageably time consuming to achieve.
And I worry. I worry that the time of being considered young, slightly attractive and fresh is almost passed and the glass ceiling is ready to reveal itself.
But, as some colleagues recently reminded me, I take no prisoners and accept nothing less than what I want. So maybe 32 and I will get on just fine.