Chronologically 59, Mentally 39: Why I still feel young, dumb, and full of opinions.

So, I’m turning 59 in a few days.
That’s… almost 60. Don’t worry, I’m just as surprised as you are. Like, what the actual fuck?!

Honestly, if I didn’t know my own birthdate, I’d argue with you. Because there is no universe in which I feel like someone who’s almost eligible for the early bird special and receives random brochures from cremation services. I’m looking at you, Neptune Society. Calm down—I still have all my own teeth and a playlist that slaps.

I’m not even sure how we got here. One minute I was learning how to contour and doing shots of Jäger, and now I’m googling “why does my back hurt after I sneeze?” and carrying BC powders in every bag I own like a damn amulet.

My brain has decided it’s just not participating in this “aging” thing. Nope. She’s chillin’ somewhere in the late 30s to early 40s range, sipping cold brew coffee and wearing eyeliner that hasn’t been discontinued yet. She still wants to write a book and possibly dye her hair pink just because. I still think in memes. I still mentally blast Alanis or Beastie Boys when I need a pick-me-up. I still feel like the most “me” version of me came online somewhere in my 30s—and she never logged off. She just got better at boundaries and started carrying hand sanitizer.

But let’s be real—my body has definitely received the aging memo.
The knees crack. The back has strong opinions about how long I can sit in one position before it stages a full-blown mutiny. There are days when I stand up and hear more sound effects than a Marvel fight scene. I sneeze wrong? That’s two days of rest and an ice pack.

And don’t even get me started on sleep.
I used to pass out like a toddler in a car seat. Now I wake up every few hours like I’m on night watch in a war zone, for no reason other than… being alive, apparently?

Still, none of this feels like me.
Because inside, I’m still the girl who laughs too loud, overthinks everything, and daydreams about doing something wildly inappropriate and totally life-affirming. Like moving to the desert. Again. Or kissing a stranger. Or starting a cult that just reads tarot and talks about healing our mother wounds while drinking good tequila.

(But like… an empowering cult. With healthy snacks.)

Here’s the real truth, though:
Aging is the weirdest blend of freedom and grief. You stop giving a damn what people think—finally!—but you also start noticing what you’ve lost. Time. Energy. People. The illusion that there’s so much time left. It’s a quiet reckoning, sometimes. But it’s also an awakening. You see clearer. You choose better. You finally start showing up for yourself like you mean it.

And that? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the part they don’t tell you about in your 20s when you’re panicking about turning 30 and pretending you understand your 401(k). You think it’s all downhill, but nah. You build the mountain as you go—and then you stand on it and scream, “This is MY life, bitch.”

So yeah. I’m turning 59.
I’ve outlived some people. Outgrown others. Outlasted things I thought would kill me.
I’ve failed spectacularly. Loved deeply. Laughed at funerals.
I’ve carried grief in one hand and a half-empty bottle of liquid courage in the other.
I’ve pulled myself out of situations I had no business surviving, and somehow still dance in the kitchen like the music was made just for me.

I don’t feel 59.
I feel alive.
And that’s more than enough.

So bring on the cake. Bring on the candles. Bring on the chaos of becoming whatever the fuck I want next.

Because I’m not done.
Not even close.

And if someone tries to call me “ma’am,” I will be flipping that AARP card like a ninja star. Just a heads-up.

xo,

Lily-Jade