Smile. Hold It.
A friend recently suggested we take a selfie. Ugh. She’s got a half decade on me and somehow manages to look like my baby sister in every photo.
Anyone that knows me is aware that I’ve never been a fan of photos. Not in my twenties. Not in my forties. Not even when I maybe have believed that I looked considerably better than I do now.
I’ve never mastered the art of posing. You know the look. Chin down. Chin up. Turn slightly to the left. No, your other left. Relax your shoulders. Smile!
Hold it.
Okay, now hold it a little longer.
By the time the picture is actually taken, my smile has evolved into something that looks less like joy and more like I have a gas bubble waiting to explode.
I went for headshots decades ago and it was pure torture! In 2019 I tried again, and my photographer friend told me, “When you force a smile, you look like you’re in emotional or physical pain.”
Well, I don’t want to be here, so forced is all I got for you buddy!
At the time, I laughed. When I saw the photos I thought, “Well…you know, that’s not entirely inaccurate.”
Because here’s something no one warns you about.
At some point, the camera stops showing you the person you think you are.
Inside, I’m still making plans, laughing too loud, starting new projects, wondering what adventure comes next. I still know I could learn French, write another play, start a business, host a podcast, and maybe even learn to play tennis if someone promises to tell me where the ball is because I’m pretty sure I could no longer see it coming!
Then someone shows me the picture and I’m like, who the hell is that woman?
Why does every photograph seem determined to introduce me to an older version of myself that I haven’t actually met yet?
It’s a strange disconnect.
The body quietly changes while the spirit keeps insisting it’s thirty-five.
Some mornings I catch my reflection and think, “Who TH is this?” Other mornings I barely notice.
Aging, I’ve discovered can be difficult because your identity updates much more slowly than your face. And maybe that’s not even the hardest part. The hardest part might be that aging asks us to hold opposing emotions at exactly the same time.
To grieve the face that disappeared while being grateful we’re still here to notice.
To miss people we’ve loved while making room for new friendships.
To mourn our old bodies while celebrating everything they still carry us through.
To acknowledge loss without letting it become our entire identity.
Some days I’m deeply aware of everything that’s gone. (Top lip. Eyebrows. Leg hair!)
People.
Opportunities.
Time.
Other days I’m almost giddy about what still might happen.
Maybe my most meaningful work is still ahead of me.
Maybe I’ll meet fascinating new people. (And recently I have!)
Maybe I’ll finally become the woman I’ve been trying to grow into all along.
Those two realities don’t cancel each other out.
They coexist.
That’s the emotional complexity of aging. It’s like walking a tightrope while juggling. In one hand you’re carrying grief. In another, gratitude.
Then someone tosses you uncertainty. (Gee thanks!)
Hope.
Regret.
Excitement.
A little fear.
A little joy.
And somehow, you’re expected to keep your balance. Some days you wobble. Some days you drop everything. Some days you look ridiculous.
But somehow… you keep moving forward.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking happiness was a destination. That one day I’d finally have everything figured out. I’d make peace with the past, feel confident in the present, and stop worrying about the future.
Apparently, that is NOT how this works.
Peace isn’t a place you arrive. It’s a practice. It’s choosing, repeatedly, to stop arguing with reality.
To stop wishing your face belonged to your thirty-year-old self.
To stop believing your best years are measured only by tighter skin or smaller jeans.
To remember that wisdom has wrinkles. (“I don’t mean me, but folks!” from the 1991 film, Doc Hollywood!)
Resilience has scars.
Laughter leaves lines.
A life well-lived leaves evidence.
So yes, I’ll probably still cringe when someone says, “Let’s take a selfie.”
I’ll probably still search for better lighting and longer arms.
I’ll probably still wonder if there’s an app that specializes in emergency jowl removal.
But maybe…I’ll spend a little less time criticizing the woman in the picture and a little more time appreciating the life she’s lived.
Because the photograph isn’t really capturing my value. It’s only capturing my age.
Those are two very different things.
And if growing older has taught me anything, it’s this:
You can carry grief for what was, gratitude for what is, and excitement for what’s still possible—all at the same time. (Although it does take practice.)
That’s not confusion and it’s not contradiction.
That’s what it means to keep living.
Third Act Truth
Growing older isn’t about choosing between grief or gratitude, the past or the future. It’s learning to carry them all at once, and still finding the courage to smile, even if it looks a little painful.