Turning 47!

A birthday reflection on the life I’ve survived and the one I’m still building.

This morning, I woke up with my usual check-in.
How much energy do I have today? What does my body need from me?
But the questions didn’t land as heavy as they usually do.

Maybe it’s because I already knew:
today, I’m 47.

And instead of dread, I felt a small lift in my chest
like something inside me was finally ready to unclench.

My husband handed me a cup of tea, the steam curling up in pale spirals.
Earl Grey, warm and citrusy.

I wrapped both hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into my palms.
He kissed the top of my head before going on with his day, and I remember thinking,
You got here. You really did.

For once, my thoughts weren’t sprinting ahead.
They matched the slow rhythm of the morning
sun soft through the curtains, kettle cooling on the bench, my breath steady.

Turning 47 feels like standing in two worlds at once:
the one I survived
and the one I’m still building.

There’s a version of me at seventeen who would look at this life;
the chronic pain,
the loss and trauma I’ve walked through,
the multiple surgeries,
the creative work that keeps me grounded,
the people who stayed,
the toxic ones I finally had the courage to release,
the small everyday comforts I’ve carved into my routines
and she’d be stunned.

Not because it’s perfect,
but because it’s mine.
Built from scraps she thought would never amount to anything.

Sometimes I picture her watching me
making breakfast,
meditating before I write,
resting when my body asks,
loving and being loved without apology.

She’d probably whisper,
So it does get better?

And I think I’d nod yes
not just once, but with the certainty that comes from living through it.
I’d tell her, Not easier… but full of a peace we couldn’t have understood back then.

This year already feels different, even if I can’t fully explain it.
Maybe it’s my priorities shifting,
wanting steadiness more than speed.
Maybe it’s the way I’m kinder with what hurts.
Maybe it’s the delicate shift
of treating myself the way I treat everyone else I love.

And yes, there are parts of my life I imagined differently by now:
milestones I thought I’d reach sooner,
chapters I avoided out of fear,
versions of me I didn’t know how to carry forward.

But there’s also a gentleness I didn’t expect.
A feeling of meeting myself in ways I once longed for.

If there’s one thing I know at 47, it’s this:

I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still learning how to love the parts of me I once hid.
Still choosing the life that feels true, even when it asks more of me.

And maybe that’s the real magic of another year:
not the celebration
or the candles
but waking up and realizing you get to keep becoming someone you’re proud of.

Today, that feels more than enough.

Debra 💕

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