Is this it? This is it.

On getting older and accepting who I am.

My home in Atlanta is just a few blocks from the rental house I lived in as a college student. That rundown bungalow, still a rental, somehow looks exactly the same all these years later. I’m also not far — just 13 miles away — from my childhood home. Another family lives there, but, again, not much has changed on the exterior. And I’ve recently returned part-time to the office where I used to work almost two decades ago. It, too, looks precisely like I remember.

Later this week, I will turn 38 years old. Unlike these places of my past, and despite my current nearness to them, I have experienced incredible change — on both the outside and inside. Just as we all do.

I have been a baby, a toddler, a child, a teenager. I’ve been a young adult, trying to find her place in the world. I’ve been a 23-year-old bride, a 25-year-old homeowner, and a 26-year-old editor, furiously crossing off life’s milestones like I was in a race to the finish. I’ve been a traveler, venturing to far-off places around the world. I’ve been a risk-taker, packing up all my belongings and moving to Florida. I’ve been a stranger in a familiar place, packing up those same belongings and moving back to Georgia. 

I’ve been a daughter, a sister, a teacher, a mentor. I’ve been a career-climber and a recovering workaholic. I’ve been a young widow. I’ve been a not-so-young mother. I’ve been a writer — finally. I’ve been a friend to people I still love and talk to regularly; I’ve been a friend to far more people I love but no longer keep in touch with. I’ve been many things and have been to many places.

Sometimes, though, it feels like I haven’t traveled far at all.

Photo courtesy Getty Images

Depending on the day, I range from being slightly satisfied with who I am to wildly disappointed. I’m critical of myself to a major fault — taking stock of everything from my body to my clothes to the essays I write and finding endless ways they could be improved. I wish I were a better version of myself, someone more confident, more outgoing, more secure, more intelligent, more fun to be around. I wonder if I’ll ever become that person.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the pandemic, or parenthood, or getting older. I’ve had some version of this conversation with countless friends. We rattle off the reasons for feeling less satisfied, less sure of our place in the world, in one breathless sentence. It’s because of the pandemic, right? Perhaps this is what happens when you’re raising a little one. Maybe it’s a result of all the depressing news, or facing the reality of climate change. Or … is this just what it’s like to age?

It’s hard to know where the effects of one life-changing event end and the others begin. It’s hard to know what to blame. It’s hard to know if this is normal or if we’re the byproduct of a wildly transitional time in history. The only thing that’s clear is that we’re different and we don’t feel like we’ve had a whole lot of say in how we’ve changed.

When I was in college — living just half a mile from my home today — the opportunities in front of me seemed endless. I flirted with the idea of moving to New Zealand on a work visa (and went as far as buying a one-way plane ticket). I applied to dozens of jobs, dreaming of what it would be like to live in different cities. I thought about the way I’d carry myself, what I’d look like, how I’d dress. In those imagined scenarios, I had it all figured out.

Over time, some of those possibilities became realities. I accepted my first job offer. I bought a return ticket and spent a week in New Zealand instead of a few years. I found an apartment in a nearby neighborhood. I wore a weird amount of infinity scarves. With each choice, new doors of possibility opened. But others began to close.

Now, just days away from turning 38, it feels like I’m facing more closed doors than open ones. I’ve made many big choices — to find love again, to become a mother, to go freelance, to move back to my hometown, to buy a new house — that have, despite their perks, inevitably limited the possibilities ahead of me. I no longer wonder who I will become or what my life will look like. This is it.

Sometimes I think back to college-student Katie, living in that crowded house just a few blocks away. She didn’t yet know how much grief and sadness life could hold. She didn’t know the weight of true adult responsibilities. She didn’t know what it would feel like to look around and see doors of possibility, once wide open, now shut for good.

Is this it? Sometimes I look at my partner after a disagreement, my child after a meltdown, my house after something breaks, and I think: Is this really what life turned out to be? More often, I look critically at myself — my tired eyes, my wrinkled forehead, my struggles to join group conversations, my endless list of worries — and think: Is this really who I turned out to be?

At some point, I catch myself in this self-deprecating, existential spiral. It might require a deep breath, a walk around the block, an emergency text to a friend, or a good night’s sleep, but, eventually, I blink and readjust my vision. My partner trusts me as someone he can disagree with and be vulnerable around; my child loves me and needs my support to test the boundaries of life; my house is my home, a space full of love and potential. And I am someone who has lived through a lot. My eyes have cried so many tears. My forehead has weathered so many worries. I have a lot to say and offer, even if it takes me a while to get there.

Sooner or later, I find that moment of clarity: This is it! This is all I ever needed.

Having lived through my share of big losses, it feels like a requirement to say that growing older is a gift. Not everyone lives to be 38. Not everyone gets to become a parent. Not everyone finds lasting love. Every time I quietly ask myself, is this it? I feel a pang of guilt. I should be nothing but grateful! 

But getting older is hard. It is a gift, yes, but it is also heavy. Just as the doors of possibility become fewer and farther between, the burden of grief gets bigger. As the years pass, our losses in life accumulate, threatening to weigh us down. It takes active effort — breaths, walks, conversations with friends, rest — to slow down and remember that all that time has been a blessing, too. I have gained more than I’ve lost. I have been so lucky.

Like anyone else, I spent my quarter-life years wondering who I would become. Now I know. I live not far from where I went to college, where I grew up, where I first fell in love. Although those places have stayed more or less the same, I’ve experienced incredible change. I’ve become the person I am today: someone who struggles with confidence but excels at empathy; someone who is quiet but thoughtful; someone who worries a lot but also plans ahead; someone who asks questions when she doesn’t know the answers; someone who loves a good book and a good laugh. This is who I am.

With age and with loss comes wisdom. That’s a gift I can fully embrace. Somewhere along the way, as I walked through different doors, some by choice, some by accident, I discovered myself. My task now is to accept that person. To embrace her. To stop searching for a different version of me and to look at the woman I am today with warmth and with love. To see the older, wiser, stronger me and to be proud as hell of her.

This is it! This is me. This is 38.

xoxo
KHG