My knees hurt. My back aches. I squint when I’m absorbed in a book, wondering if it’s time for reading glasses.

Every now and then, I find myself thinking about aging. What is it about that process that makes people so sad? Is it facing our own mortality, or fear of losing our relevancy? Is it witnessing our limbs growing tired and not working as well? In a society so obsessed with appearance, is it losing our youthful glow?

Are the chocolate strands on my head slowly turning to white snow? The veins on my hands beginning to show?

How can I get used to this new reality of changing bodies and kids growing up and moving on? Trying to hold on to the past is like trying to catch water in the ocean; I cup my hands together, but the water slips right through my fingers.

The realization dawns on me; I never had a grip on it at all.

In my mind’s eye, I still see myself as 27. That’s a good age. At that age, our skin is still soft and elastic, and we’re full of energy and drive. It’s not so young that inexperience and impulsiveness reign. At 27, I felt powerful. Indestructible, even. I looked good. I felt good. When you’re 27, you wake with vigor and stay up late, running on batteries that never seem to expire.

Now, more than a decade older than that, I find myself between both worlds — no longer young but not yet old. These starting signs of aging leave me fearing what the future will bring. How will I become the person I’m meant to be when I’m still holding on to who I used to be? Can I accept the new stages and changes that growing older will bring? Can I find new ways to enjoy life when it slowly grows quieter? How will I adapt to the wrinkles, the aches and pains, the eyerolls from my kids ’cuz I “just don’t get it?”

How will I explain to them that once upon a time, not too long ago (really!), I was just like them? That I looked at life in front of me as if it would go on forever? That I felt as though I could take on the world? That I rolled my eyes at my parents, who just didn’t get it?

How do I instill in them the knowledge that life moves so fast? In the blink of an eye, they will be right there in my shoes (please G-d) and find themselves staring at their face in the mirror, wondering how they got here.

What I really want, I think, is to look at myself with kindness. To tell myself that it’s okay. These changes we go through tell a story. With age, we learn, we grow, we reach higher and know ourselves deeper than we ever did when we were younger. I want to tell myself that if we let ourselves age gracefully, the world winks at us and sees our worth. But if we fight it, we’re back at the seashore, grabbing at water in the ocean. In our futile attempt to slow time, we miss the beauty in this very moment. The changing seasons have a gift to give, but our hearts and minds must be willing to receive it.

I hope one day I’ll be able to believe this. I hope I can shake off the shackles that Western culture places on us women.

Because right now, as I grab my car keys and race out the door to do carpool, I steal a quick glance in the mirror.

And all I see in my reflection is the line between my eyes.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)