Having recently celebrated a birthday, I had reason to ponder the passage of time. Time, in my opinion, is a very strange thing. I often look at my daughter and can’t recall when she wasn’t with us and yet I cannot believe I am the mother of an almost 10-year-old. I look at my nephew and can remember the moment I first held him and yet he’s almost four, the same amount of years it has been since my Dad died. Oh time, where do you go?

I have a pretty vivid memory of being a young child and having a chat with my great-grandmother. I was small and she seemed so BIG. I remember her white hair and fragile skin. She told me that while she was in her nineties, she still felt seventeen inside. I admit that I couldn’t believe what my young ears were hearing. Now I get it.

I am someone who has never been good at guessing someone’s age. Nor do I love announcing my own. It’s not really that I fear aging, it’s actually that I have come to believe age just doesn’t matter. When I was a teen everyone thought I was older than I was; now people think I’m younger than I am. Some might argue this is a good thing, but for me it has always presented a huge challenge. I oftentimes feel like I don’t quite fit. So, I have decided to not worry about my age- in fact, I honestly have to occasionally figure out what age I am.

I am grateful for life and certainly thankful for the opportunity to experience another birthday. Yesterday at the PNC Drop-In countless people said, followed by a wink: “so Erinn, this is number 22 right?”.

Yes, 22 again. And again.


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