I talked to my best friend a few days ago, and we were running our mouths as usual when she said something very profound. She said, “We’ve been alive for over half a century.” And I was like, “Dang…” I mean I knew that but when she worded it like this, it kicked in sharply.

Later, after we hung up, her words kept echoing through my mind. Over half a century of living, loving, and just staying alive. Making memories that will stay with me forever and some that have left holes in my heart that will never be filled.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling so don’t-give-a-fuckish lately. In a few days, I’ll be 56 years old. Almost 60. I spent so much of my youth trying to fit in. Lord knows I tried. But I never could so somewhere along the way, I stopped trying. Like fuck y’all. All of y’all. And now, I’m at peace with myself. I like who I am, even the parts of me that took years to understand. I don’t have everything figured out, and I probably never will. But it will never stop me from searching.

I still marvel that I have half a century of laughter and tears, triumphs and disappointments, beginnings and endings. I’ve watched the world change in ways I never could have imagined as a little girl. I’ve loved people who are no longer here to love me back. I’ve buried pieces of my past along with the people who helped create it. And I’ve had to learn how to keep living in a world that no longer contains so many of the people who once made it feel like home.

And yet, here I am. Still laughing one minute and crying the next. Still learning, still loving, and still trying to make sense of this weird but beautiful thing called life.

When you’re young, fifty years seems like an eternity. You think you have all the time in the world. Then one day, you’re sitting around running your mouth with your best friend, and she casually reminds you that you’ve been alive for more than half a century.

And suddenly, you realize that life isn’t nearly as long as you once thought it was.

But what a remarkable thing it is to have lived long enough to look back. To have stories to tell, memories to cherish, and even sorrows that remind you how deeply you’ve loved.

I’m not the little girl I once was, but she still lives inside me. And sometimes I wish I could reach back through the years, take her by the hand, and tell her about the life that awaits her. The beautiful parts and the heartbreaking ones.

Most of all, I’d tell her that despite everything, she’s going to make it.

And that, my friends, is no small accomplishment.