I hit the big 3-7 this past January. It’s funny how time can warp your perspective. I remember my mom at this exact age, bustling down the street with my little sister in a stroller while I lagged behind. I asked her how old she was, and she turned, her dark hair dancing in the breeze, to say, “Thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-seven is what it means to be a grown-up,” I thought. I saw her rush ahead, her blue dress and sandals blurring as she grabbed my arm and pulled me across the street.
My mom had a lot on her plate back then. She was navigating life as a single parent after separating from my dad when my sister was born, suddenly responsible for two little girls. I felt the weight of her challenges, even as a child. But in that fleeting moment, I simply saw her—an exquisite, flawed, and resilient grown-up, existing outside of her role as my mother.
I can’t recall the transition from 37 to the point where she started dyeing her hair and wearing stockings. But here I am, at that very age. I notice the wrinkles forming after a night of restless sleep, and as I pull my dark hair into a ponytail, silver strands glimmer back at me as if they were just waiting to be discovered.
What truly hits me about being 37 isn’t just the physical changes—it’s the realization that, like it or not, this is my life. I’m a grown-up! I have two energetic sons, a wonderful husband, a rented duplex, an aging Honda, and a fish named Bubbles.
So many things that terrified me as a child—marriage, childbirth, raising kids—have already unfolded. Yet, I know there are still significant life events ahead. The thought of my children becoming teenagers or eventually leaving home is hard to fathom. I’ve heard tales of menopause and other changes that come with aging. And while I have an irrational fear of my first colonoscopy (why is that?), mammograms don’t faze me at all.
But the thought of my parents passing away? That one is truly daunting. I hope I have decades before facing that reality, ideally after my kids have grown. I still rely on them; they might not even realize how much their presence and innocence ground me.
But I also understand I can’t control that aspect of life. People lose their parents all the time, often before they feel ready. It’s a daunting truth.
So, this is my reality right now: the kids, the husband, the fish. My addiction to my smartphone, the secret stash of chocolate on the top shelf, and the running shoes I’m finally dusting off as winter gives way to spring. As I prepare to lace up again, I remind myself: “I can do this. I can embrace this life.”
One of the biggest revelations in my late thirties has been learning to manage the anxiety that has shadowed me since childhood—or at least giving it a hearty “screw you.” My anxiety has fluctuated over the years, often casting a shadow of impermanence over my life. I’ve spent much of my adulthood doubting that the joyful moments—my marriage, my children—are truly mine to cherish.
It’s likely tied to being a child of divorce, which made it hard for me to believe in the stability of my own family. But I’ve found ways to cope. Meditation and deep breathing help, but it’s the passage of time and distance from my childhood that have allowed me to let go of fear and truly accept my life as it is.
I often wonder how my children perceive me at 37. Do they catch glimpses of me, just as I did with my mother? Do they feel the warmth of my grip as we walk to school, squinting against the winter sun? Do they sense the bittersweetness of my letting go as they explore the world around them?
Do they see my imperfections, my openness, my wholeness, and my fractures? As a child, I longed for adulthood, and now I understand why. They say you can’t rewind once you age, which is oddly reassuring. The past is behind me, and I’m ready to embrace the present—myself, comfortable in my own skin.
This life—beautiful, fragile, complicated, and awe-inspiring—is all I have. So, I’ll dive into it, cherish the moments with my loved ones, and never forget how fortunate I truly am.
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Summary:
At 37, I reflect on my childhood perceptions of adulthood and recognize the joys and challenges of my current life. I navigate the complexities of parenting, marriage, and my own anxieties, embracing the beauty of imperfection and the fleeting moments with my family.