I woke before dawn, the house still and the birds not yet convinced of morning, and whispered a quiet prayer of thanks for forty-five years of breath. I can almost trace the journey in the lines near my eyes, each one a small etching of laughter, sleepless nights with newborns, or tears shed in both loss and relief. They do not bother me. They testify.

At this midpoint of my life, I feel the gentle pull of paradox. My body is no longer the effortless engine of my twenties, yet it carries the strength of every mile walked beside rivers and up church steps, every shift at the gas processing facility, every sideline cheer for a child chasing dreams. My heart has stretched to hold both grief and wonder, and my faith has traded certainty for something deeper, something truer: trust. “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). I know that promise now not as poetry, but as truth.

I think of my Gram’s hands rolling out pie crusts on the counter by the window, of my father’s voice ringing out hymns, of my mother’s quiet courage letting her children stumble and rise. Their wisdom rests in me like seed. At forty-five, I finally understand that growing older is less about clinging to what was and more about tending what remains so it can bloom again in someone else.

The mirror shows silver threads glinting in my hair and a softness around my middle that once would have sent me scrambling for quick fixes. I won’t pretend I haven’t touched up my roots or smoothed a wrinkle or two. But Botox and touch-ups don’t erase the truth of aging skin or the sacredness of a face that’s been lived in. They don’t hide the lessons carved gently beneath my eyes, the ones I earned through heartbreak, hard-won wisdom, and the kind of laughter that leaves a mark.

This is the body that bore sons, hugged daughters, carried burdens, and stood in prayer for friends who couldn’t find the words themselves. It has weathered storms, grown softer with compassion, and stronger in its purpose. Proverbs says that gray hair is a crown of splendor, and at forty-five, I wear mine not in shame, but in reverence.

I have made mistakes, some loud, some quiet, some mine alone, but grace has proven louder. And if the younger version of me could see this day, she might be surprised to find that contentment doesn’t come from a perfect plan achieved on schedule. It looks more like Saturday coffee with my dad, a late-night call from a grown child just to say love you, dogs snoring at my feet, and a husband whose steady presence steadies me too.

Forty-five invites me to live lighter. To carry fewer grudges and more stories. To forgive sooner, listen longer, and give more than I take. I have no desire to chase youth. I want to steward the wisdom God has loaned me for however many chapters remain.

So I’ll mark this birthday not with dread but with reverence. Aging is sacred. Skin remembers. Faith deepens. Love multiplies. May the years ahead be written with courage, humility, and an unhurried hope. I am grateful for every scar, every sunrise, every second chance, and for the Voice that still whispers, even now, “I know the plans I have for you.”