46 and Still Becoming

Image from Pinterest

When I look in the mirror lately, I see someone tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep can fix,
but the kind that lives in your bones.

The kind that comes after two—maybe three—broken hours of rest,
jolted awake by nerve pain, stiff joints,
a body that won’t settle no matter how still I lie.

I see rashes that weren’t there yesterday.
Clumps of hair falling like threads from a worn-out sweater.
A face both swollen and hollow,
like it’s been holding too much for too long.

And beneath all of it?

A woman who’s trying.

Trying to keep showing up.
To stay connected.
To inspire, even when she’s running on empty.
To heal trauma in a body that keeps breaking.

I see someone who still wants to be here.

Even on the hardest days,
something deep inside me says
Stay. Breathe. We’re still becoming.

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Beneath the Surface

There’s mourning with chronic illness.
Not a single heartbreak,
but a thousand small goodbyes.

You don’t just lose things.
You notice you’ve lost them
slowly in the background of your life.

It’s waking up and realizing you can’t do a 9-to-5 anymore
not because you don’t want to,
but because your body has rewritten the rules.

It’s learning rest is no longer a reward
it’s the bare minimum.
The floor beneath your feet.

It’s starting to cook dinner,
then folding into the couch before the water even boils.
It’s canceling plans you were excited for,
because your body flared like a match
and didn’t go out.

It’s watching your muscles spasm,
your energy vanish,
your patience stretch thin.

And somewhere in all of it,
you start to miss the girl you used to be.

The one who danced barefoot in the kitchen,
music cranked up, heart unburdened.
The one who moved fast,
light-footed, with somewhere to be.
The one who moved through the world
like it was hers to hold.

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This Body, My Weather System

Each morning is a question I don’t know how to answer.
I meet my reflection and wonder;
Who am I in this skin today?

Some days, it’s like standing in the center of five storms.
I can't predict which will hit first
just brace for the impact.

Brushing my hair
becomes a negotiation.
Messages sit unopened,
not out of neglect,
but necessity.

Everything feels louder.
Harsher.
Like the world keeps shouting.
And I shrink, not from weakness,
but from needing somewhere safe to breathe.

I apologize more than I should
to the people I love,
to those who check in,
to the version of me I wish I could be.

But mostly,
I apologize to my body.

I’m sorry you’re hurting.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen sooner.
I’m sorry survival has meant so much sacrifice.

And still,
this body gets up.
This body carries me.
This body reaches
for softness, for light,
for something to believe in.

---

How I’m Still Here

There are days I wonder
if anyone sees how much it takes
just to text back,
just to smile,
just to carry pain
like it’s a purse I can’t put down.

But, I’m learning
not to silence the doubting voice,
but not to let it steer the ship.

Because even like this
I still create.
I still show up.
I still write truths
even if my hands shake while typing them.

I used to think healing meant pushing through.
Now I know it means letting myself feel it all.

The rage.
The grief.
The longing.
The tenderness.

I’ve learned to be kinder to myself,
because I’m finally giving myself
the love I’ve spent a lifetime giving others.

And that love says:

You can rest and still be worthy.
You can pause and still be present.
You can unravel and still belong.

You are not the things you can no longer do.
You are the one who keeps choosing to stay.

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Becoming at 46 and Beyond

This isn’t a story of fading.
It’s a story of unfolding.

At 46, I’m learning to meet my body where it is
not with frustration,
but with care.

To stop measuring strength
by what I can carry,
and start honoring what I still hold.

Aging with chronic illness for me
means choosing honesty over shame.
Finding beauty in the slowness.
Making peace with this gentler pace.

If you’re walking this path too,
I see you.

We’re still here.
Still opening.
Still becoming.

And sometimes that’s the most powerful thing we can do.

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My Inspiration Corner

To support you wherever you are on your healing journey,
here’s one book, one quote, and one song that have helped me especially on the days my body feels like a battlefield and my heart, a survivor.

Book: The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk
This book reminded me that our stories live in our cells, that trauma is not just memory, but a body experience.

Quote:
"Just because you carry it well doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy." — Unknown

Song: Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers
This song makes space for the disorientation of living in a body that doesn’t always feel like mine, and the strength it takes to move through the fog anyway.

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Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

If this spoke to something in you, I’d love to hear from you.
Leave a comment, reply to this personal essay, or share it with someone
who might need a reminder that they’re not alone in the mess of it all.

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If you’d like to support my work, here are a few lovely ways:

• Share the personal essays that move you, and like the ones that linger
• Grab a copy of my poetry books on Amazon
• Visit my print shop for gentle, meaningful art
• Or treat me to a little coffee on Ko-fi—it helps me keep writing, one cup at a time

Thank you for being here with me.

Debra 💛