The first time I felt old, it hit me like a delayed

punchline. I was at a coffee shop when the barista, effortlessly cool and likely born after my first heartbreak, smiled and said, “What can I get for you today, ma’am?”

Ma’am.

I had been a "miss" for so long that the shift

felt like stepping off an unseen curb. I laughed it off but began recalling subtle signs leading to this moment, like not recognizing a song in a store. When I asked a younger coworker about it, she replied, “Oh, that’s kind of an old song now.” It was from 2015.

Or the day I bent to tie my shoe and let out an involuntary grunt. An older man nearby gave me a knowing nod. Welcome to the club.

Aging creeps up in small ways. First, it’s funny; you joke about needing a day to recover from a late night or hearing a teen call the '90s “historical.” Then, the jokes turn into quiet truths.

One day, I caught my reflection and recognized the fine lines and how my skin wasn’t as forgiving. I wasn’t upset, just aware. Aware

that time was moving, and there was no pause button.

Yet, with that awareness came unexpected calm. I wasn’t chasing youth or hoping to be mistaken for younger. There was freedom in letting go, in simply being.

The first time I felt old, it startled me. But as I settled into it, I realized aging wasn’t happening to me, it was just another chapter, one with its own kind of magic.