Last August, I discovered my first white hair in a very unexpected place.
I was shocked. A few weeks later, I found another one—this time on my head. At first, I felt sad. Then came gratitude, because so many people have not been given the privilege of reaching my age.
Yesterday, I saw that white hair again. It had grown surprisingly long alongside the rest of my hair. For a moment, I wanted to pluck it. Instead, I tucked it beneath one of my braided hair extensions.
I did not remove it, but I was not ready to display it either.
Perhaps that is where I am in my relationship with aging: somewhere between gratitude and concealment.
How did I get this old?
The body has a way of revealing what the mind wants to conceal. It reveals itself through a white hair, a forgotten key, or the moment I walk into a room and cannot remember what I came to retrieve. Things that once took minutes to memorize can now take days or weeks. The late-night movie binges and reading sessions I once enjoyed can now disrupt my sleep—and my entire week.
My body speaks through a quickened heartbeat, back pain, hormonal changes, and the slight crack and discomfort in my knees as I climb the stairs. It tells the truth, even when my mind insists that nothing has changed.
There is grief in that truth.
We do not talk enough about the grief that can accompany growing older. Sometimes it is the realization that certain versions of ourselves will never return. Sometimes it is recognizing that the life we imagined has not unfolded according to our timeline.
Perhaps some of my sadness is not simply about getting older. It is about getting older without having met the love of my life yet.
I thought certain parts of my life might look different by now. I imagined that perhaps I would have found the person with whom I would build a life, create traditions, share responsibilities, and grow older. Maybe we would be raising a child together.
When those hopes remain unanswered, a single white hair can feel heavier than it is. It becomes a reminder of time—time that has passed and time that does not feel unlimited.
Will I meet my person? Will I have the family I have prayed for? Have I missed the season when those things were supposed to happen?
Faith does not prevent me from asking these questions, and gratitude does not cancel longing. I can appreciate the life I have built while still grieving what I have not yet experienced. I can know that I am deeply loved by God, my family, my friends, and my community while still desiring the particular intimacy of being known and chosen by a life partner.
My life has been filled with love, but there is a form of love I am still waiting to meet.
Still, I do not want fear about time to convince me that my story has already been written. I am learning to hold hope without allowing it to become panic—and to acknowledge the ache without letting it diminish the love and purpose already present in my life.
Maybe growing older is asking me to release not the desire, but the deadline I attached to it.
Perhaps freeing my youth does not mean desperately trying to hold on to it. Perhaps it means releasing my younger self from the responsibility of defining who I must be forever.
I can honor her without trying to remain her.
My body has carried me through grief, responsibility, leadership, disappointment, joy, service, and love. It has kept moving through seasons when my spirit felt exhausted. Even its aches and interruptions are invitations to listen more carefully—to rest, slow down, and care for myself differently.
Aging has brought changes I did not request, but it has also brought an unexpected peace: the peace of knowing myself more fully and understanding that I do not have to prove everything, attend everything, fix everything, or carry everyone.
Maybe that white hair is not announcing that my best years are behind me. Maybe it is evidence of prayers survived, lessons learned, heartbreak endured, and grace received.
For now, it may remain tucked beneath my braids. Acceptance does not always happen at once. But when it reveals itself again, perhaps I will see it not as proof that I am losing my youth, but as a reminder that I have been given the gift of growing older.
My body is changing because I am still here.
And that is worthy of gratitude.