Sometimes, I look at my hands: my 45 year old hands, and I see the spots and wrinkles forming and remember how I never thought I’d live past 21. I remember many people never thought I’d live this long.
I look at my hands, the lines on my face; I think of where I’ve been and where I am now. I remember the car accident at 14 and how I was “lucky to be alive,” I remember the OD where I was “lucky to be alive,” I remember the cancer where I was, “lucky to be alive.”
I remember not wanting to be 40 or to be as old as my parents. I remember thinking I’m not meant for this place.
But then, I look at my hands and see wisdom; I see what I’ve survived; I see I can make a difference. I see my amazing son who’s not the same as everyone. I understand I’m still here to advocate for him; for me; for all of us.
Getting older is a gift denied to many. I embrace it. I want to make the most of it. I look at my hands. I’m lucky to be alive.