They Say I've Reached My Prime

On turning 32 & keeping our eyes on the other city

If the world tells me that I’m at my prime—and I feel that dissonance with everything inside me—maybe it’s not because this world has been unfair or that I’m somehow failing to carpe diem, but because I’ve finally begun to accept that I’m just wandering with the best of them.

Deidre Braley

A moment in January where I almost felt fabulous…until Theo told me my belly “looked like a rounded apple”

I turn 32 on Friday.

I once read that a woman reaches her prime at 32, which feels a bit depressing, given I’ve only got 72 hours left to be fabulous before it starts going downhill and right now I’m not even wearing real pants.

Instead, I spent the majority of last night doling out Tylenol, washing crib sheets, and holding a quivering three-year-old over the toilet. Now, I am unkept and headachy, and the only thing I’m primed for is a very long nap.

In honor of my upcoming birthday, I had intended to create another list of things I learned this year (in the same vein as last year’s birthday post, Cheers to the Years), and for it to be smart and snappy and the kind of listicle clickbait we all love to open.

But as I hobble through these last few days of being in my prime, I’ve actually decided to share just one thing with you, because it’s beginning to dawn on me that it’s this thing—and only this thing—that will continue to give life its color when exhaustion and disappointment and exasperation are doing a bang-up job trying to turn it all gray.

[And since I’ll be past my prime soon, I anticipate this becoming all the more prevalent.]

Here it is: