I turned 60 today. It’s a strange number—round, heavy, and somehow quieter than I expected. I spent the afternoon at my parents’ house, surrounded by familiar walls and the scent of old recipes. My twin girls were there too, laughing and teasing me about my age. It felt warm, simple, and grounding. My son couldn’t make it—he’s in Paris, where he just proposed to his girlfriend on top of a mountain. He’s living a cinematic life, and I’m proud of him. But today, I stayed grounded. No drama, no champagne—just family, stories, and the quiet joy of being remembered.
After the visit, we drove home in my Subaru, the same one I’ve had for years. It’s reliable, like me. I changed into track pants, climbed into bed, and turned on the TV. My two little dogs curled up beside me, their soft breathing syncing with mine. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was peaceful. I didn’t need fireworks. I needed comfort. And that’s what I got. Sixty doesn’t feel like a milestone—it feels like a pause. A moment to exhale and take stock of everything I’ve built, everything I’ve survived.
I used to chase excitement, especially when the kids were younger. Birthdays meant parties, decorations, chaos. Now, I crave stillness. I’ve earned it. Watching my son live boldly reminds me that I’ve done my part. I raised a man who flies across oceans for love. I raised daughters who show up, who laugh, who care. That’s my legacy. Not the number on the cake, but the people who carry pieces of me into the world. And if that’s dull, then I’ll wear it proudly. Because dullness, in this season, feels like peace.
There’s a quiet magic in aging. You stop needing to prove yourself. You stop measuring joy in grand gestures. You start noticing the way your dogs settle into the crook of your knees, the way your parents still remember your favorite tea, the way your daughters roll their eyes with affection. These are the things that matter. Not the mountain proposals or the Parisian romance—but the steady heartbeat of home. I’m learning to love the rhythm of my own life, even if it doesn’t make headlines.
I’m not trying to compete with my son’s adventures. I’m cheering him on from my pillow fort of dogs and fleece blankets. I’m celebrating in my own way—softly, slowly, with gratitude. I may be beyond dull, but I’m also beyond chaos. And that’s a gift. I’ve lived enough to know that quiet doesn’t mean empty. It means full in a different way. Full of memory, of presence, of love that doesn’t need to shout. Just whisper and stay.
So here’s to 60. To track pants, Subaru rides, and dogs who never leave your side. To children who grow up and fly, and parents who still open their doors. To the kind of life that doesn’t sparkle, but glows. I may be dull, but I’m deeply alive. And today, that’s more than enough.
