It’s a strange thing to be almost 56 years old. I’m no longer young, but I’m not technically old either. I find myself occupying this peculiar space between youth and old age, where I’m constantly reminded of how much life I’ve lived while being equally aware of how much life I may still have ahead of me.

And depending on whom you’re speaking with about aging, you’ll receive vastly different opinions. To someone in their twenties, I’m ancient. To someone in their eighties, I’m still a spring chicken. It’s fascinating how age is both a biological reality and a matter of perspective.

What I find most interesting about this stage of life is the shift in my thinking. Things that once seemed so important no longer deserve my attention. People I once would have bent over backward to accommodate can now kiss my ass. And situations that would have sent me into an emotional tailspin twenty years ago barely warrant a raised eyebrow today.

But there’s also something deeply sobering about approaching 56. I’m becoming increasingly aware of my own mortality. I’ve lived long enough to bury people I thought would grow old alongside me. I’ve watched entire chapters of my life close, sometimes without warning, and I’ve come to understand that time is the one thing we can never replenish.

Yet I don’t view aging as some terrible tragedy. There is a certain freedom that comes with reaching this stage of life. I no longer feel compelled to explain myself, prove my worth, or seek anyone’s permission to exist exactly as I am.

I’m not the young woman I once was, and I have absolutely no desire to be her again. She was still learning lessons that I now carry in my bones.

I may not know precisely what to call this stage of life. Middle-aged? Older? A woman approaching her crone era?

Whatever the hell it is, I’m here.

And considering how many people I’ve loved who never got the privilege of reaching this age, I refuse to treat growing older as something shameful.

I am not mourning my youth. I am honoring my survival.