A letter to my 30-year-old self on my 40th birthday

Today you turn 40. When we were little, I thought 40 was old. Maybe it is. But my actual experience of it is far different than I’d imagined.

It feels like we’re just getting started, somehow.

Sure, our body has a few wrinkles and sore muscles. The food I eat actually affects how I feel. But I’m still here. And after this year, that’s a big deal.

I’m not sure you want a heads up on all that unfolds in your next decade. It’s harder and more beautiful than anything you’ve ever navigated. But somehow you will arrive at your 40th year of life and feel more alive and free than ever.

This is the decade you become a mom, twice.
It transforms everything about you. Enjoying these two humans becomes your vocation. A calling. Your love for them is ridiculous and big and unending. Even when they roll their eyes at you.

This is the decade you get ordained as a pastor and serve five beautiful communities.
These communities teach you to love with abandon, to welcome all, to fight for those pushed aside, to lead teams you adore. You love this work, even as a new invitation emerges.

This is the decade you claim your call to write with a whole heart.
You write your first book, practice stringing together stories with joy, and open yourself to new dreams.

This is the decade you choose to face your anxiety.
It’s hard in a way no one sees. Only you could choose this. And it unleashes a power and wisdom you never thought existed. Turns out fear was just trying to get your attention. Once you started listening, she pointed you to each step of healing when you were ready.

This is the decade you ask new questions about your family.
You explore the coping mechanisms you picked up as a kid. It’s past time to let a few of those go. It takes brave conversations and you choose that path multiple times, even when the little kid in you wants to die.

This is the decade you realize you adore pastors and leaders.
You love befriending them and cheering them on. You walk with, coach, listen, and encourage them, especially when they feel alone and exhausted. They are forever your people.

This is the decade your surround yourself with friends who love the you you don’t see yet.
They stick around when others leave. They ask questions when you’re stuck. They love you even when you’re not performing and proving yourself. This will confuse you. Go with it.

This is the decade you work on your marriage when it would have been easy to let it coast.
You get honest and brave and unlearn and keep healing. You’re learning to receive the love you so easily give to others.

This is the decade you return to your body.
You learn she’s tired of fighting and only wants to feel and heal and move and rest. She’ll be your best friend, if you’re willing.

This is the decade your brother dies.
You grieve hard because going all the way into it is the only way through. But damn, it hurts. His love integrates into your new life. There is no moving on. Just living with. And that living with becomes absolutely beautiful. Turns out, love never dies.

Dear one, this is the decade you get free. Yes, the work continues forever (I’m told). But the love you laid bare these past ten years does one magical thing. It returns you to yourself. You fall in love with you. With us.

You turn over every pain and trauma and fear to see what beauty they hold underneath. You’re astounded that going right into the tangled mess of life sets you free. Every single time. Almost as if that’s the good news of being human. Death and resurrection.

So my wonderful friend — the best piece of advice I offer is to open those hands. I see you terrified to let go. Hold your life loosely. Feel the breeze, the laughter, the love, the fear, the pain, the joy. Say yes even when you’re scared. Say no when your heart’s not in it.

And please. Please don’t wait for any one else to heal your life for you. That invitation only has your name on it. When you show up to what’s yours, Love takes your hand and never leaves. Ever.

I love you. Happy 40th birthday my lovely friend. Here’s to a life we adore.