In just a few months, I’ll be 55 years old—and I can’t wait. To some people, that probably sounds strange, because society is obsessed with youth and soaked in ageism. But honestly? I don’t give a flying fuck.

I’ve lived. I’ve survived. I’ve been through storms most people couldn’t imagine. Health scares. The heartbreak of losing my childhood family, friends, and loved ones I thought would be here forever. A brutal bout with alcoholism. And more pain, grief, and hard lessons than I’d ever wish on anybody. Life has thrown me all kinds of shit, and yet—look at me. I’m still standing. Still breathing. Still laughing. Still dreaming. Still here.

And that’s not something I take lightly. Every single freckle, every scar, every gray hair—it’s proof. Proof that I fought, that I endured, that I refused to tap out when life tried to break me. Aging isn’t something to fear. It’s something to honor. Because not everybody gets the privilege of growing older.

So when November 20 rolls around? Oh, I’m not just “celebrating a birthday.” I’m going to party like a rock star, dance like my body has never known pain, and laugh so hard my younger self would be proud.

55 isn’t a number to me—it’s a crown. And baby, I’m going to wear it boldly, unapologetically, and fabulously.