Thirty-Nine. The Last of the Thirties.

I’m turning 39 tomorrow. THIRTY. NINE.

That’s one less than forty. As in, the last number I can claim before “in my forties” becomes a real part of my identity.

It’s not a landmark birthday, yet it still feels… different. Quietly significant. I’m standing at the edge of this decade, wondering how I got here so fast—while also thinking, “Yeah, no, I’ve definitely earned these years.” And I feel all the things.

Honestly though? I’m not mourning it.

As I sit here on the eve of my birthday, I’ve been reflecting on a few of the lessons I’ve learned in these later years of my thirties. And I want to remember them. I want to honor this last chapter before a new one begins.

First, I don’t want to be a younger version of me.

I haven’t felt the desire to fight the aging process. People often ask why I don’t just dye my grays—as if they’re something I’ve overlooked. But the truth is, I actually love them. I’ve earned them. Every silver strand feels like a little trophy for the sleepless nights, the worries, the hard conversations, and the growing pains—both mine and my kids’.

Rather than trying to fight aging or slow it down, I just want to honor and embrace it.

My face and body have changed right alongside my hair. But I’m not interested in spending this next season trying to look like I’m still 25. That woman was beautiful, but she lacked the experiences, the growth, and the clarity I have now. And I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything.

These wrinkles? They’re a testament to a life truly lived—lines from smiling at babies, laughing with friends, grieving losses, squinting in the sun on a long run, and staying up too late talking with people I love.

I don’t want to erase those years. I want to remember and cherish them.

Second, something beautiful happens in your late thirties.

The fog starts to lift. You stop performing. You stop comparing. You begin to trade pressure for peace—or at least you try.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, you give yourself permission to simply be.

It’s liberating, even if it feels a little scary at first. It takes courage. It takes vulnerability. But the less I worry about what other people think of me, the more I’m able to embrace who I really am—and who God wants me to be.

Third, becoming the mother of teenagers changes everything.

It shifts the ground beneath your feet. Every idea I once had about “How to Be a Good Mom” has been redefined. I used to think it meant a clean house and children who hit their milestones. Now, I know it’s more about being available. Being present. Being willing to listen, to apologize, to laugh, and to extend grace—both to my kids and to myself.

My perspective has shifted. I’ve learned that control is not the goal (nor is it even remotely possible). Parenting teens is equal parts letting go and anchoring. It’s full of quiet prayers, deep conversations, and learning to love without always having the answers.

I’m no longer in the bubble bath-and-bedtime-stories season. I’m in the carpool-late-night-talks-silent-prayers-and-endless-laundry era. And you know what?

I love it here.

It’s hard and holy and humbling. And it’s shaping me just as much as it’s shaping them.

Those are just a few of the many lessons my thirties have given me. This new year feels like a gentle invitation—to slow down, to look back with gratitude, and to look ahead with anticipation. Not panic. Not desperation. But a quiet confidence that the best parts of life aren’t behind me just because I’m one candle away from forty.

If anything, I feel more grounded in who I am than I ever have before.

I’ve come to know myself—and more importantly, I’ve come to know God. I know He’s aware of me. I know that every year I’ve been given is a gift from Him. This past decade has been full of moments that required me to lean on Him more than ever. I’ve had to remember that I am His—and that I am loved.

So here’s to 39.

The last of the thirties. The start of something new. The beautiful middle.

And if you see me out and about with my gray hairs sticking out waving wildly in the wind and my laugh lines deepening, just know: I’m embracing and cherishing all of it.