Today I turn sixty-three.

I don’t feel dramatic about it. I don’t feel fragile either. I simply feel aware.

Aware of how much has been lived.
Aware of what no longer needs to be carried.

There was a time when birthdays felt like report cards. What have I built? What have I achieved? What have I survived?

Now the question is gentler.

Does this still feel like me?

Last year, I stepped away from something I had once given my energy to wholeheartedly. I didn’t leave in anger. I left because something inside me had grown clearer.

In the quiet that followed, I realized something freeing:

Not every story requires my correction.

People will have their versions. Memories shift. Perspectives differ. I used to feel responsible for clarifying everything — for making sure the narrative was accurate.

I don’t anymore.

I know what I said.
I know what I meant.
I know who I am.

At this age, that knowing is steady enough.

So here is what I keep.

I keep my standards.
I keep the courage it took to speak when it was inconvenient.
I keep the grace it took to step back when staying would have cost me peace.
I keep my sleep.
I keep my joy.

There were seasons for building, proving, defending. I am grateful for them. They shaped me.

But this season feels different.

This is the season of selecting.

I select where my energy goes.
I select conversations that feel reciprocal.
I select rooms where I can be fully myself without explanation.

Energy is precious. I no longer spend it trying to win arguments or chase applause. I would rather spend it on family, meaningful work, long conversations, quiet mornings.

Success now looks simple.

It looks like sleeping well.
It looks like laughing easily.
It looks like no longer rehearsing explanations in my head.
It looks like peace that does not need witnesses.

Sixty-three does not feel like a summit.

It feels like a vantage point.

From here, I see the storms I survived — as a mother, as a woman, as someone who rebuilt more than once. I see the love that endured. I see strength that was earned slowly, quietly.

And ahead, I see space.

Space to choose carefully.
Space to live lightly.
Space to be present — selectively, intentionally, fully.

If you are entering your sixties, wondering if you are “behind” or “too much” or “not enough,” let me tell you this:

You are not.

You are seasoned.
You are discerning.
You are allowed to choose peace over performance.

We have earned the right to keep what strengthens us and release what diminishes us.

Sixty is not a decline. It is a refinement.

And there is something deeply beautiful about a woman who no longer needs to prove — only to choose.