Every girl she ever was

Her instincts were iffy, doubt clinging to her like sweat at the end of a hot yoga session. She stared at her reflection, tentatively at first, then more boldly, though still with a shadow of hesitation. The bathroom light was soft against the predawn darkness yet far too honest at five in the morning, catching the fine lines, the shadows, and the silver streaks along her middle parting and temples—stubborn strands that even the flat iron refused to tame. She had finally convinced herself that her grays could no longer be contained or hidden. She was tired of clinging to a version of herself that belonged to the past.

At sixty, the mirror offered little room for falsehood, holding up only unfiltered truths. Sometimes she cringed, the vanity within her wanting to deny the passage of time etched across her surface.

There was the softening around her middle. She pinched her squishy places, wondering if desire might still long for a home there. She squirmed at the thought of his hands cupping her soft flesh, then smoothed it over, reminding herself that her curves were generous, plump enough to cushion even the weariest head.

For decades, she had been a series of drafts and rewrites, becoming adept at reinventing herself. Standing there in the quiet house, interrupted only by his rhythmic snores, she wondered if she had it in her to do it once again…to write herself into being.

This would be her final act. No further edits. No more self-doubt. There was nothing left to chase. She would find her grounding in her truth: that she loved fully, lived freely, and would continue to stumble through life unapologetically. Her mantra was simple: no regrets.

She was no longer young, yet a youthful exuberance lived just beneath her skin. She loved being herself because she had stayed the course, fought to keep relationships alive, and learned to thrive through winters that felt endless and summers that scorched. She had been burned and broken, but the jagged pieces of her heart had been glued back together with faith and courage.

She would choose love again and again, because lust paled in comparison. Love held up a mirror, allowing her to grow and shift.

She loved herself because she had been brave when she was utterly terrified, brilliantly foolish when she thought she was invincible and generous even when giving of herself nearly cost her everything she had built.

Perhaps this is what aging does for us. It asks us not to let go of who we were, as though shedding old skins could make us lighter, but to gather all those versions of ourselves together and finally make peace with them:
The wild girl who ran too fast into strange places.
The trusting girl who believed the lies they told.
The woman who made hard choices with a soft heart.
The woman who thrived despite rejection and loss.
The woman who loved too much, too loudly, and finally learned that love started and ended with her.

She smiles knowingly, because every girl she had ever been is still here, making mischief and moves. The glint remains, and if you can see past the map that time has traced across her skin, you will find the treasure.