There are moments in life that seemed very different when I was younger + this is one of them. I imagined 40 to look ancient as I decide whether to wash another load of clothes or fix lunches with inconsequential utensils. I pictured myself being in a rat race most days virtually unrecognizable to myself. I visualized myself in a rut, nestled in marriage trying to dodge the 7-year itch + hanging with people who have amputated parts of themselves just to fit in. I envisioned dragging my children to activities as I listen to random people discuss parts of their life they hate. Then I hit 40 + I realized that this moment is more than I ever dreamed. In fact, at 40 I became more of a woman by allowing my scars to be the fuel to navigate my purpose. Actually, at 40 I fell more in love with myself by loving another human being from a perpetual space of forgiveness. If truth be told, at 40 I acknowledged that I hate cooking, I need intimacy at the same frequency as sex or nothing less + I am so grateful to love what I do every day. As a matter of fact, at 40 I recognized that I enjoy people who reflect goodness a hell of lot more than people who deplete my energy. Honestly, at 40 I liberated my children in a way that set us both free + gave me permission to be a woman. The truth is, at 40 I fell in love with me + the beautiful messy journey that got me to this point. Actually, at 40 I am resolved.