Crows feet run from my eyes like rivulets down dusty hills. Gray strands of hair shoot across my head like lightning in a night sky. I’m aging. And I’ve accepted the way aging looks on me.
Acceptance is a powerful thing. I could stand before a Nordstrom mirror and declare the lighting is harsh, or I could accept the dimples dotting my thighs. I could scroll through photos of myself and conclude the angles were bad, or I could accept that that’s just how I look. I could dye my hair and inject Botox — and I very well might do that soon — or I could accept that I’m no longer 25.
I could accept that beauty fades. And I could believe that youth is an attitude—a way of being and thinking—and that awe and wonder is what’s truly beautiful. I could choose to be grateful for every new wrinkle and strand of gray hair—for I am alive another day, joy etched into my face and wisdom painted onto my head. So many people don’t get to live long enough to see their body change, to see their children grow. Aging is a gift—a reminder that you have been given life, and your appearance reflects how fully you’ve lived it.
Acceptance is a powerful thing. When we accept ourselves as we are, in every season of life, we see that aging is beautiful—that true beauty will never fade.