Rather be me

I looked in the mirror this morning and realized I look older. Not in a negative oh-my-God-I’m-almost-30!!!! kind of way. More in an I-see-the-years-on-my-face kind of way. There are creases in the corners of my eyes if you look really closely, shadows under my eyes, and a stillness to my mouth I’ve never noticed before. There are lines on my neck and my shoulders seem stiffer and higher. I’ve lived so much in a mere 29 years. I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes and still haven’t accomplished anything. I’ve loved, and lost, become a mother, a daughter, a friend, a half to a whole… of course I can see the years. And I’ve decided I’m okay with that.

I’d rather be a woman that has lived enough to know what she wants than to have an unlined face. I’d rather be a woman that dreams dreams that can come true. I’d rather be a woman that loves fiercely and is so devoted it drains her. I’d rather be a mother that sacrifices everything in order to forge an easier path for her son. I’d rather be a friend to be relied on, a woman to be counted on. I’d rather be a rock to build on and a tree to shelter. I’d rather be any of those things than any shallow vacuous young vessel that mimics youth and beauty but holds nothing within.

I’d rather be me.