“Don’t blink,” a friendly stranger at the supermarket advises me, glancing at my cart overflowing with kids. “It all goes by so quickly.”
“Just wait,” others chime in, sensing my patience has worn thin.
After nearly 13 years of navigating parenthood, I’ve grown accustomed to these remarks. I’m almost desensitized to the reminders about how swiftly my children will grow, how before I know it, I’ll be confronting the challenges of adolescence with each of them. I often reminisce about the days filled with Legos, dollhouses, diapers, and training wheels, knowing that I will one day long for those moments again.
Indeed, the strangers are correct. The years slip away heartbreakingly fast, despite the seemingly endless days. I’ve already experienced that bittersweet nostalgia when looking at photos of my chubby-cheeked toddlers, marveling at how they’ve transformed into young adults who require adult-sized meals and comprehend the subtle humor in TV shows. I’ve shed tears over graduations and the emergence of their grown-up smiles. Yet, witnessing my children mature is something I anticipated; it’s the natural progression of life. When I’m surprised that my 12-year-old can now meet me eye-to-eye, I also feel a rush of joy; after all, this is how it’s supposed to unfold.
What truly astonishes me now is how quickly I am maturing.
No one in the checkout line has ever touched my arm and whispered, “It goes so fast,” with a nod to my own life. Honestly, I wish someone had back when I was in my 20s, when adulthood felt like an endless blank page waiting to be filled. Amidst work, marriage, and raising tiny humans, I’ve crafted a narrative much richer and fuller than I ever anticipated, and it’s all happened in the blink of an eye. Though there’s still more to come, I can see the margins starting to fill.
I’m 40 now, with a prescription for a mammogram tucked in my bag as proof. The films that shaped my youth are celebrating their 30th anniversaries, while my favorite songs are now classified as “oldies.” I know I should embrace this milestone, relishing the freedom of being myself and the lack of concern for others’ opinions. All of that is true, and there are undeniable perks to having survived the rollercoaster of youth, the uncertainty of my 20s, and the trials of my 30s—marriage, parenting, and navigating a tough economy.
Yet, there are moments, even while engaged in mundane activities—like driving my minivan down familiar suburban streets with a few kids secured in the backseat—when I catch my breath, overwhelmed by how swiftly the years have passed. How did I become the middle-aged mom in this scenario? I was present for every moment, but still, I feel like a teenager playing the role of an adult, despite my responsibilities, like that mammogram prescription and monthly mortgage payments. I expected to have more wisdom at this age, a greater understanding of life. More often than not, I still feel like that awkward adolescent who once sported braces and mixed tapes in her room.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper to myself. “I’m not ready.”
I’m not ready.
I have no desire to revisit those years; I was awkward enough the first time around. It’s not that I was happier back then, or that I’m dissatisfied with where I am now. It’s simply that time is passing so rapidly. In focusing on my children’s growth into young adults, I didn’t pay enough attention to my own journey. I didn’t have time to dry my hair, let alone realize how all those days added up to a significant portion of my life.
Before you chime in, I understand that 40 isn’t considered old nowadays. I also recognize that I have much more ahead of me, and I genuinely look forward to the journey. I’ve faced loss and challenges, yet I embrace aging with gratitude. This is what I’ve strived for: to reach this stage of my life, in parenting, in my career, and in my marriage.
Still, I’m just not ready. Perhaps, we’re never fully prepared.
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