I turn seventeen tomorrow.
And I think maybe I’m alright with that, for once.
You see, every year I look forward to my birthday with a mixture of excitement and dread. I’ve always disliked getting older. It feels like too much, it feels like every year added is a year slipping away from my grasp. I always feel that I haven’t done enough, that I should be better, that maybe I could have done more, been more, wanted less and fought less and hurt less.

And I felt the same way this year, for the most part. Seventeen was always a word that came with too many complications. Too many responsibilities and expectations I didn’t feel I could live up to. I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn’t see a girl about to enter her last year of real childhood.
I saw a girl who still wanted all the things she had left behind. She looked so young to my eyes, and seventeen was a weight too heavy to carry.

But when I look back, at the girl I once was, I realize I’m not her anymore either. I never will be her again, I’ve grown since then. And I’m not perfect, I’m far from it. But I can look myself in the mirror and not wish it was a different face looking back at me. I can listen to my parents talk about my accomplishments, and I can feel proud of that girl, even if sometimes I feel like I don’t know quite who she is.

You see, sometimes getting just what we want doesn’t look like we thought it would.
One of my flaws has always been that I’ve wanted too much, and at times that wanting makes me feel empty, because I’ll never have everything that I long for.
And sometimes I think I forget to remember that I have so much that I once yearned for.
That when I was a little girl, I wanted to be a published author, and I am.
That when I was a little girl, I wanted to be surrounded by friends who cared about me, and I am that too.
That when I was younger I wanted to see the world, and I have now.
That when I was a little older I wanted desperately to be liked for who I was, to be needed, and maybe I am that too.

And so I’m not going to mourn the time that I was sixteen, because I don’t feel that it was wasted. I did things as a sixteen year old that I had always wanted to do, things I never thought I would. And sure, it was one of the hardest years of my life, but it was also one of the most beautful. And maybe it hurt, maybe a lot of things did. And maybe I long for my childhood a little bit more than I should.
But I want this, too. Even amidst the uncertainty, even amidst the fear I have yet to shake. We can’t go back, can’t step back into who we once were. The only way is forward, one uncertain step at a time, until we reach the end, and we can only hope that our lives made someone else feel a little more loved, a little more important. That when we look back on all we accomplished, we can be content with that.

So yes, I’m turning seventeen tomorrow. And maybe this year, I can be alright with getting older. Maybe it doesn’t have to mean as much as I always thought it did. Maybe age really is just a number, one that doesn’t have to define us.

Thank you for thinking that I am worth believing in. You don’t know how much it means to me.