I’m a 32 year-old writer, less than six months away from 33.
Over the weekend, my mom called me 35.
And I gulped.
Staring down the barrel of 40, the list of what I haven’t done is miles longer than what I have.
I haven’t written a book.
I haven’t been published in The Vogue, Femina, who’s who journal.
I’ve never penned an interesting story.
Nor appeared in print.
I haven’t founded a company, built a product, or been a Manager.
I’m not a “top-rated speaker.” Nobody’s paying me 100k, 10k, or even 1k to show up and open my mouth.
I’ve never gone viral.
All I am is all I am. And what I am is …
Wife to one husband.
Cheerleader to some amazing girls.
I have a job I love.
I work with unbelievably talented people who are wicked smart.
And I’m f****** good at what I do.
More importantly, I’m better at what I do today than I was a year and a half ago, a year ago, six months ago.
My friends answer my calls and tell me the truth.
I’m a 32-year-old writer. Less than six months from 33.
So, yeah, life is pretty good, mom. Still … no need to rush things.