Aging.

The past year of watching my son grow from a born-blue, tiny little wrinkled creature, to an off-the-charts tall toddler with a full head of hair and a personality aligned with that wild mane, I’ve witnessed the miracle of human growth with a front row seat, albeit in a haze of stage mist.

As my son approaches 14 months, I too am aging. The once pluckable silver strands on top of my head are appearing in droves, streaming down my once solid brunette locks. The corner of my eyes, an area I frequently examine up close in the mirror for those lovely crows nest lines that will eventually come, seem to be starting to etch themselves into my face. I’m aging, maybe not as dramatically as my son, but a year is a year is a year, and in each year we do grow that much older.

From birth to five years of age is a long time in the life of a child, but it’s also a long time in the life of an adult. From 20 to 25, 25 to 30, 30 to 35 and so on… our bodies transition in ways we do not notice with the exception of those twinkling grays and fine lines and more noticeable veins in our hands as the days go on and on.

I no longer see 40, or heck, 50, as old. There is no such thing as being old, only aging in our bodies that have been around a while and then too long. We celebrate the birthdays of our children for many years and yet we stop really celebrating our own march towards the inevitable. We may go out for dinner with friends who buy us over-the-hill cards that became less humorous by the year. We one day look at ourselves in the mirror and don’t recognize who we’ve become. We seek out those who knew us when, who still catch a glimpse of our youth in passing.

I’ve found ones 30s are a major time of transition from youth to full-on adulthood. You come into your thirties with the energy and enthusiasm of a freshly free-from-cocoon butterfly and you leave it, from what I gather, with a solid understanding of what matters in life, what doesn’t, ready to hole up in your cocoon and revert to a caterpillar-like state. For many, the excitement of what if is behind them, and life has moved to a state of maintenance. Maintaining your relationships. Your career. Your face.

But it’s helpful to remember that between now and whenever your CPU fails entirely, there is still a massive amount of change your body will experience. You can choose to celebrate this or ignore it or panic or cry, but it will happen no matter what you decide to do. There are (hopefully) many years ahead and yet they will go fast and faster still. At least, as a parent, I see what a year means in my child and also in myself. It’s no longer just four quarters–which might as well be five or three or six or seven. It’s a solid chunk of time which a child goes from an infant to a toddler to a child and then moves on through grades which have some slightly better than arbitrary significance.

While I still feel like I’m about 15, I’m trying to accept that person is long gone, mourn her, and move on. As each year I mourn the death of my previous self and welcome the next woman to experience this flesh, I try to embrace her and all her flaws, letting those silver strands glisten, and removing fear from watching the many expressions on my face stick permanently across my forehead. I’ll mourn the death of my past selves and welcome my birth every year, every month, every day, to never miss a transition, a moment in time meaningful to embrace, just like turning 2 or 10 or 16 or 18 or 21–every day lived is a cause for celebration and honoring the miracle that is our body that is not at all our own.