Well, it's official. I'm an adult.
In age perhaps, but not in frame of mind. See, that's the beautiful thing about writing...It keeps you young.
On a strange side note, last year I was convinced that I was turning thirty, not twenty-nine. I prepared all year for that moment. And then a few weeks before my birthday, I mentioned to my husband how I couldn't believe I was almost thirty. He kindly corrected me.
This year I'm actually thirty. And while some small Peter Pan-esque part of me screams in terror at the relentless onslaught of years, most of me is able to sit back on the couch and relax because I've done pretty well so far.
Loving family and friends. Fantastic marriage to a man I adore. Books published and slews of ideas bouncing around my head and Pinterest boards. A life I love to lead up here in Alaska.
It's not the New York City loft apartment, single life, and best-seller's list life I'd imagined for myself at the age of 15 (nor is it the life of a single, sheepherder living in a tiny thatched-roof cottage in Ireland), but it's my life and it's damn good.
Best of all, I feel so grateful for the life God's granted me. That realization of how fortunate I am is the greatest present of all.