I turned forty-five.

Gray hairs boldly grow betwixt the blonde. Coarse. In a direction of their own. Gray hairs don’t apologize.

I am forty-five. The mirror confirms it.

I am not the first woman to be shocked by her reflection. The changes happen so suddenly.

I am not the first woman to yearn for smoothness and effortlessness and tautness. Nor will I be the last.

But I will not avoid my reflection. Instead, I will linger. And I will let nature have her way with me, mostly.

Because I am most proud of myself for being willing to look at life squarely. Willing to attempt–again and again–to see clearer. Willing to feel confusion and grief and anger and longing and joy and awe and terror and ecstasy. Willing to feel. To learn. To see.

In my youth, I disregarded beauty. I thought it frivolous. Now I understand that what I actually believed was that I, myself, was not worthy of beauty. I didn’t linger in the mirror. I believed myself too unworthy.

Now, at forty-five, I try not to judge myself as one thing or another. Instead when I look in the mirror, I attempt to recognize the person, the human, the soul, looking back at me.

These days, I crave beauty at every turn. Not the sort of photo filters and laser peels, but the beauty of epic films and aching songs and dewy fresh cut flowers and silk dresses and the most exotic perfume you’ve ever smelled and the most pleasurable touch you’ve ever felt and the most flavorful bite you’ve ever taken.

I crave beauty.

And at forty-five, I allow it.

Happy Birthday to me.