On Turning 34

Yesterday, I turned 34 years old.

Which, honestly, sounds a lot older than I feel.

I’ve never been one to get hung up on age. Birthdays don’t intimidate me and I’m not shy about sharing my age. I get a year older every year, so why fight it?

But in a lot of ways, a 34-year-old sounds like someone know has their life together. Someone who has a solid grip on everything and is a real grown up.

And in some respects I can own that. I have a mortgage and pay my bills on time. My kids, ages 5 and 7, are alive and thriving (if you count “living on peanut butter and applesauce” thriving).

But in some ways, I still feel like I’m making it up as I go.

For example, I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I do feel like I’m right where I need to be in a job with incredible purpose and impact, but to an extent I still wonder what my future holds. Which goals to chase after. Which dreams are just dreams and which dreams are actually a calling.

Dreams are different than they used to be. Like lots of people, I’ve had seasons where I dreamed of fame and fortune. Dreams that were wide-eyed and fanciful.

Now, my dreams are quieter, but just as profound. How can I spend more time with my kids? How do I have the biggest and most positive impact on the people around me?

So at 34 years and 1 day, I’m content with working hard at what’s in front of me and still allowing myself to dream.

And, as childish as it sounds, it can be fun to dream.