Fifty-two. It’s not young; it’s not old. It’s kind-of in the middle between zero and one hundred four.

And today, it feels like 86 or so. Seriously. My right bicept hurts. I don’t even know why. Some nerve is pinching somewhere, and the pain it’s inflicting has finally forced me to fold on my “no drugs” stance and find three ibuprofin for relief. My knees scream, “Stop!” every step I climb. And the heartburn; I need tums to move on from that. So basically, I’m a mess. A hot mess.

It’s 11:27 pm and I’m up wayyyy past my bedtime. As a night owl who has stayed up past midnight for most of my life, I’m often dismayed that doing so is no longer a good option. At least not unless I’m able to sleep in. Now, I need my sleep. And to pull an all-nighter Netflix binge can leave me drooping for half a week–I just can’t do what my 35 year-old self found easy to pull off.

In a professional development course last year, the presenter spoke about the different seasons of our lives. She pushed those in my age group to consider that we were now in the twilight years of our lives, as in “almost done.” And that felt so weird at the time. Maybe even slightly offensive. After all, who wants to be taught to think of their lifespan as only one week long and then be told that they are now on Saturday morning?!

But this evening, fifty-two feels fine with me. I’m too weary and achy to worry about what day of my lifetime I’m on. I’m crawling into my cozy bed, and my home is peaceful. My spirit is fiery and passionate. Like a beautiful photograph, this moment in life is fine, ailments and all. Goodnight!