Last week, I turned thirty-seven. When I was younger, I never quite imagined what life after 35 would be like. In my twenties, I thought everyone would be "grown-up" by then: confident, steady, calm, with fewer questions. Here I am now, and while stability has indeed arrived in many ways, the questions haven’t lessened—they’ve just changed.
There’s no denying my body has started telling its own story. Most of the wrinkles that greet me in the morning smooth out by breakfast, but some stay with me. My skin reacts differently than it did ten years ago, and when I look back at old photos, I see how much has changed. I’m a few pounds above my usual weight, even though my diet and workout routine haven’t changed. I’m simply stepping into a new chapter of life where this is normal.
I catch myself in the mirror. Sometimes I still try to find the face I knew, but then I notice something new that I like. My gaze is calmer. There’s a depth in my features I didn’t know at twenty—a depth only time can bring. Sometimes I wonder when the first gray hair will appear and how I’ll feel when I find it.
I’m weighing when the time might come for my first serious cosmetic treatment. I don’t see it as essential, nor do I think anyone "should" do it. But I also feel that when that moment arrives, it will be because I want it—and I won’t feel guilty about it. This is me too—a woman who wants to feel good in her own skin, whatever that means.
Meanwhile, I remind myself that aging isn’t just the story of the body. It’s just as much about who I’ve become inside.
Because when I look back, I can’t help but feel proud of all I’ve been through. Those situations that would have crushed me at twenty don’t break me anymore. I’ve learned when to say no, and I no longer feel guilty for choosing myself.
We often treat aging as a negative word. But there’s something deeply human—and even beautiful—about it. Our bodies change, just like everything alive. Why not see it as an exciting process?
I remember when I met my love (then just a fleeting adventure, since we only found each other as serious partners years later), we were twenty-three. His hair was raven black, thick and soft, and my fingers almost got lost in it. Now sunlight catches the silver strands, and the hair is thinner. But when I look at him, I feel lucky to witness this change. I see the years we’ve shared, the laughter, the silences, the choices. If I can look at his changes with such love, why not do the same for myself?
Maybe this will be the biggest lesson of my thirty-seven-year-old self: that my body’s changes aren’t losses but proof. Proof that I live, experience, laugh, cry, and love. That every little line holds a story—and none of them are shameful.
My younger self might have feared what I see in the mirror now. But I’m more curious. What will I be like at forty? Or fifty? Maybe more silver strands, more smile lines, more memories will show in my reflection. And if I’m lucky, more peace too.
If this is aging, I’m not afraid. I’m making friends with it—slowly, gently, at my own pace, morning after morning, as I stand by the window feeling the sunlight caress my face—just as it always has, and always will. No matter how many wrinkles come.
