Turning thirty was no big deal. Thirty-ONE, however, feels over the hill. I always say that I’ve aged ten years with each birth and maybe five more just from marriage. My girls and my husband bring me more joy than I ever could have imagined, but they’re a lot of work. Add in a double mastectomy at 30, and my biological age doesn’t nearly match my emotional age. I’m really approaching 60.
My mom has always said that with each decade she has a new and improved attitude. It’s kind of like ‘don’t sweat the small’ stuff ‘meets who gives a crap’. (She’d put it more eloquently, less crass). I’m beginning to see what she means. As my emotional age approaches her biological age, I’m feeling the same.
It’s not that I’m in love with myself, there’s still plenty of work to be done… plenty. But I have a new confidence that has grown and matured as I have. Especially since faced with this BRCA gene ordeal and all it’s taught me, I feel I can handle anything that comes my way. I’m strong and I can overcome. I have a new respect for my body. Sure, I’ve never loved my hips, but their width helped childbirth go rather quickly. I didn’t love my breasts or nipples (especially after nursing), but now they’re perky and pretty awesome. Between childbirth and the removal of my breasts, my body has been through a lot. And though I don’t really like to dawn on it negatively, yes, I’ve been through a lot too. Certainly I’ve been tested as much mentally as physically, maybe even more so.
Now that I’m 31, I’m going to embrace myself. My 60 year old inside wants me to. After all, if I can’t appreciate what I’m capable of, who will?

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