When I grow up I want to get old. But here's the thing - if growing up means not pranking people (that is my everyday passion!) and limiting my thoughts and activities to behaving like an adult, count me out. I am mischeivious, but predictably never boring. That's the only way I can live.

I am genuine and kind, and hope to never lose those qualities even when others fail to exhibit them. But life happens, and some get lost in the complexities and misfortunes that befall them. Me? I take my unfortunate past and wear it as my survival cloak. I no longer don my thorns; I wore them for years on my inside. I internalized the abuse at the hands of my parents. It felt so familiar and safe to punish myself emotionally- just like they did to me. Thankfully, those days are long gone. Daily I count my blessings. If that is a declaration of "grown up," I'll gladly take it!

But growing up is in a whole different realm from getting old.

I've heard it said that getting old is a privilege. How interesting to dwell on that now, compared to where my thoughts were during the throes of my abuse. I didn't want to live any longer; my abuse rendered me numb, and if my future meant residing within a mind that was filled with despondency, desperation, and depression, I wanted out. I no longer wanted to take another breath. My grief was my gown. It was my uniform that I just couldn't shed. Bound tightly from within, it controlled my every thought, leaving me empty. A soulless being that was unwanted from conception.

But I was the mistake created with an inner flame that refused to die down. I couldn't die; my soul wouldn't entertain that option.

This brings me to now. I celebrate that I'm still here! I often think about how lucky I am to have endured so much, yet learned to live so passionately. Then, as I wander to where my curious soul takes me, I wonder. I question how getting old differs from growing up. Sure, getting physically old incurs brittle bones and weakened muscles, but will it include wearing my pride and gratitude like a royal robe? Will I still speak my mind and remember who I, my husband and children are? Will I remember that even if fail, I can walk away from that which no longer pleases me? Will I permit myself to eat brownies for breakfast and lemon squares for lunch? Will dinner also be whatever and wherever I want it to be?

I think I know these answers. I want to age like a beautiful quilt. I wish for all the days that led me to who I am to come together as a well-told story assembled with love. Surely I will be in the last chapter, but like the well-worn quilt, I will become a softer version of who I used to be, and a collection of all I have been. It's okay if, like my memory, a few stitches have loosened. I will wear the lines on my face like the glorious hand quilted designs; unique and intentional. In winter I will warm myself in this blanket of memories. In summer I will rest on a quaint, paint chipped porch swing, watching time and people pass by- relishing the ability to see the world around me as exciting and worthwhile. Each day will become another chance to feed my thirsty soul and nourish my desire to accomplish what I thought I couldn't.

But now I can. I can see that what I feared was my abuse whispering to me, trying to stunt my growth. I can see what I have left to do while there is breath in my lungs and blood coursing through my veins. I will not allow a fear of my future to fuel reluctance in my present. I will give myself the gift of self-love and all the graces that mercy brings.

Just watch me. I am what I was always meant to be and have no plans to veer from that. I have no plans to grow up, but I have every intention to grow old.

Just watch me rock!