Vulnerability and weakness are scary. I take a selfie of my 43-year-old self and don’t see vibrance—I see time. I see gravity’s sag and pull, like a claymation artist molding my face, tugging at my jowls to sculpt a bulldog’s flaps. I wish it would go away—the spots, the blotches, the redness that makes me look like I’ve just had a good cry.
But it doesn’t. It won’t. And since the cost and slippery slope of altering my face with needles or suction is a firm no, I have a choice: fight this raging river of age or learn to float with it.
This aging thing happens to us all. And that person in the mirror—the one being judged and scrutinized—what about her? What about him?
It feels like a tug-of-war between the undeniable beauty looking back at me and the slow melt of time.
I don’t know how to embrace aging, but I want to. I want to learn from the women who’ve gone before me, who dug a well within themselves and went there instead of society to drink. Julia Roberts comes to mind—her words light the way: “I don’t resort to lifting or Botox, and I know by Hollywood standards I’m risking my career.” And, “The most important moments of the day are never the ones I spend on set, but the ones I have at breakfast.”
How do I stop seeking my worth in a reflection that no longer exists?
Maybe it starts with recognizing that my worth was never in that reflection to begin with. It was never in the smoothness of my skin, the sharpness of my jawline, or the absence of lines around my eyes. It was always in how I made people feel, the way I love, and the wisdom I carry.
Maybe I look outward at the life I’ve built, the people who cherish me, and the moments that hold real weight. Or inward, where the well of self-acceptance is deeper than the fleeting beauty of youth.
Maybe the answer isn’t to stop reaching but to reach for something real—something lasting. To myself, exactly as I am.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 