It’s my birthday. I’m an age I couldn’t have imagined when I was twenty or twenty five. I’m fifty-three years old today, and it’s a mystery how I got here.

I was single most of my twenties, going to school and working. I was married with children in my thirties, barely conscious much of the time.

My forties were a rebellion. A mid-life struggle, maybe. An examination of faith and church and what it meant to be a woman who was not just a wife and a mother.

Now I’m in my fifties and it’s an exhale. It’s a bit like I’ve been holding my breath for decades, trying to be good at stuff, and now I am letting it all swirl away in deep sighs of release.

In my fifties, I’m giving myself permission to not be amazing. In my fifties, I’m believing what I told my younger self – that God is good and I am enough.