I turned 37 this past January. Reflecting on this milestone, I recall my mother at this age. We were strolling down the street; she was pushing my younger sister in a stroller while I lagged behind. Curious, I asked her how old she was. With her jet-black hair blowing in her face, she said, “Thirty-seven.” At that moment, I thought to myself, thirty-seven is a true grown-up. I remember watching her hurry along, her blue dress and bare legs a blur as she pulled me across the street.
My mother had so much on her plate back then. After separating from my father when my sister was born, she suddenly became the sole caretaker for two young girls. I could feel the weight of that time, absorbing her stress like a sponge. But in that moment, I simply saw her essence—a beautiful, imperfect, resilient adult, distinct from her role as my mother.
The years between her 37 and when she began to dye her hair and wear stockings have faded from memory. Yet here I am, at that very same age. I notice the wrinkles that greet me each morning after a restless night. When I pull my dark hair into a ponytail, those silver strands reveal themselves, as if they’ve been waiting for me all along.
But it’s not just the physical aging that resonates with me at 37. It’s the realization that, regardless of expectations or desires, this is my reality. I am a grown-up. This is my life—filled with two bright-eyed sons, a compassionate husband, a rented duplex, a 14-year-old Honda, and a fish named Bubbles.
So many of the frightening milestones I once imagined as a child—sex, marriage, childbirth—have already become my reality. I can only anticipate the other significant events that lie ahead: my children entering their teenage years, leaving home, and the inevitable changes that accompany aging. I’ve been warned about menopause and other physical transitions, and for some reason, the thought of my first colonoscopy fills me with irrational dread, while mammograms do not.
The loss of my parents is a thought so heavy that I struggle to even contemplate it. I hope to have several more decades before confronting that reality, ideally after I finish raising my children. Their presence is vital to me; they don’t realize how much their existence and guidance mean to me.
Yet, I understand that control is an illusion. People lose their parents before they are truly ready, and the feeling of being unprepared is universal.
This is my life now—my kids, my husband, my fish. The iPhone addiction, the secret chocolate stash on the top shelf, and the running shoes I’m finally dusting off as spring arrives. As I gear up to run again, I’ll remind myself: “I can do this. I can embrace this life.”
As I transition into my late thirties, I’ve gained an increased capacity to confront the anxiety that has lingered since childhood—or at least the ability to tell it to take a hike. My anxiety has ebbed and flowed throughout my life, peaking during certain periods. Even when it’s not at its worst, it often casts a shadow of impermanence over my life. I’ve spent much of my adult life in disbelief, doubting that the blessings I have—my marriage, my children—are truly mine to cherish.
Being a child of divorce contributes to this skepticism; it’s challenging to believe that nothing will disrupt the good life I’ve built as an adult. However, I’ve learned to cope. I meditate and practice deep breathing; these strategies help, but it’s the reality of aging and the passage of time that have allowed me to relinquish fear and fully embrace my life as it is.
I often ponder how my children perceive me now, at 37. Do they glimpse me from an outsider’s perspective, even briefly, as I once did with my mother? Do they notice me squinting against the winter sun on our walks to school? Can they feel how tightly I hold onto their hands, and yet how I gradually let them go each day as they explore the world more independently?
Do they see the flaws and strengths in me—the openness, the wholeness, and the brokenness? As a child, I always looked forward to growing up, and now I comprehend why. They say that aging is irreversible, and that knowledge brings me comfort. I’m ready to leave the past behind.
Now, I am here, fully myself and at ease in my own skin. This life—beautiful, fragile, complex—is all that exists. I have nothing left to do but immerse myself in it, cherish moments with my loved ones, and recognize how incredibly fortunate I truly am.
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In summary, as I embrace adulthood at 37, I reflect on my life’s journey, recognizing the beauty and complexities of my experiences. I am learning to confront my anxieties, cherish my family, and appreciate the present moment.