The Truth About Age 46: On My Birthday, So Happy Being Me

Today is my birthday and the truth of the matter is this: at age 46, I am stronger, smarter, funnier, fitter, doper, finer than I’ve ever been. I say this not to brag. It is what it is. Finally. Granted, it’s taken me some time to get here—to be confident in this skin and this hair and these curves and this role as a woman and a mother and a writer and all the many other things that make up who I am. But being in my 40s feels a little like someone sprinkled fairy dust all up and through thangs—fairy dust filled with truths and mettle and grit and heart and wit that, on my best days, were missing when I was in my 20s and thought I knew it all and my 30s, too, when everything I smugly thought I knew became wholly irrelevant as I fumbled my way through what it means to really be truly, totally, utterly grown. Simply put, there’s nothing like being me.

Nothing embodies this feeling more than one of my favorite songs ever, Angie Stone’s “Happy Being Me.” The lyrics, an ode to self-appreciation and contentment, express perfectly how I feel most days. Of course, I have my moments of self-doubt; that is human. I am human. Fallible. Imperfect. Still, I’m loving who I’ve become. And wake up every day excited about all the ways that I’ll move and stretch and grow some more. Yes. Yes, I am.