Happy Birthday to Me

I’m 27 today. 27. 27. I’m trying to let that sink in. I am definitely not where I thought I would be.

My big sister and I shared a room until she went to college. When we were little bits living in the old house on Stewart St, we use to play like we were 22 years old. That was the perfect age. Still young and beautiful, but grown up and at the peak of wisdom. We pretended that we lived in Paris and owned a perfume company. I still love perfume. However, I don’t like the French. (sorry Sara. I love you, though!)

As I grew up, 22 was still the magic age. I just knew that I would find my Someone in college and be married the summer after graduation. “Dear Jesus. Thank you that I wasn’t married at 22. Amen.” I look back on myself at 22 and laugh at the thought of me being ready for marriage then.

God has taken me places I never dreamed. And He has detoured me around places I was sure I would go. A few years ago, at the Addlestone House, I wrote God a letter and told Him that I wanted love and marriage and children. But most of all, I wanted life to be an adventure. The thought of “status quo” made me feel like I was suffocating. Praying that was like praying for patience. It’s a prayer that He most assuredly answered, but it hasn’t looked like those familiar day dreams for one moment.

And now, 27 and never-been-kissed, let alone married with kids, I am coming to terms with having dreams with no expectations. Don’t worry, mom. I still want my own family. But I no longer have a time-line that determines whether or not I am “where I should be.”

I am where I should be. And thank goodness it’s not Paris.


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