I’ve been desperate to be 40 years old since I was 9. My parents co-owned a racquet club back then, and it gave me life to get to do step and dance aerobics with the 40-ish chicks at the club. This was the 80’s, Jane Fonda was in full effect, and so were leotards, white tights and even whiter high-top Reeboks.

I, of course, could only wistfully dream of being able to work out in such incredible gear on a daily basis. (And no, it does not escape me that this is still one of my favorite parts of what I do every day, if you swap out the tights for lululemon capris and swap out the step for a spin bike.)

Anyhow, I was always a precocious child. And always an entrepreneur. My Mom tells how I tried to sell my newborn brother in the grocery store. And how I charged my preschool teachers $1 to watch the other kids during naptime (because Lord knows I was not interested in naps or in other children) so they could run to the corner store next door.

I was actually named Valedictorian of my kindergarten, which is not even a thing that should exist. Of course, I didn’t perceive this as undue pressure at the time, even though I was five and shouldn’t have had a say in the matter. I actually saw my kindergarten teacher a few years back, while visiting family in my hometown. She walked right up to me and said, “TARA-NICHOLLE BEASLEY.  It’s me, Mrs. Sowers! I’ll never forget. You were 4 years old and you asked me how to spell the word s-o-p-h-i-s-t-i-c-a-t-e-d. You look exactly the same.”

I even remember actually praying for a life fast forward button, when I was little. In part, I was motivated to get out of some painfully repressive circumstances at home. And in part, I was motivated to learn how to do it right, to figure out how to do a family right, to create the warmth and acceptance and affection I didn’t feel at home. I wanted to figure out how to do that and have that, and I couldn’t wait any longer.

So, I basically made my own fast forward button. I got married when I was 16, to a man who came with an infant son already in tow, and had a son of my own when I was 17. When I said I wanted to fast forward, I wasn’t messing around. The thing is, you can’t heal emotional wounds and fix spiritual problems by bolting a bunch of new facts and people and conditions on top of the old wounds and hurts. Of course, you don’t know this when you’re 16 years old. (Of course, you don’t know much when you’re 16 years old.)

Anyhow, this craving for age didn’t end there. I married two men much older than me. I worked as a probation officer during grad school, and learned to dress like a much older woman to be taken seriously. Pantsuits all day, erryday. I did the same when I was a lawyer. I learned to like old lady-style things. I even painted my houses in the same two-toned color scheme, every time I moved: toasted almond (taupe) on the walls, Swiss coffee (white) on the ceilings and mouldings. Done and done.

I hung out with women who were a lot older than me, but were badasses and gorgeous and so vital, because I felt like they were teaching me how to outpace life. I developed a storyline about how I planned to live until I’m 250, and be cute and work out and eat kale and parent pugs until I was at least 249, after which time I would let it all hang out. And I looked forward to every birthday because it was getting me closer, somehow, to what I saw as a respectable age. In retrospect, maybe I thought that there was some magic age number at which you just figured things all out, and things weren’t so painful anymore.

But then one day, the shit hit the fan. The edifices I’d built in my life on top of a cracked foundation began to crumble. At one point, all that was left was me—that cracked foundation. Slowly, I started to excavate the foundation and rebuild it, fixing the cracks. I had to rehab the structure of my soul, then make some space available for an injection of spirit. I started rebuilding my life and my family with emotional integrity. And while I was working on all of this was when my therapist said to me: “You know, it’s never too late to have a great childhood.” And I took her up on that offer.

I started to dance. And play. And sing. And gravitated toward other, wounded, healing, beautiful souls who had also learned to cherish hard work and sacrifice and discipline and excellence and music and deep connection and friendship and travel and play and reading and art and such. I made some incredible friends in the unrepressed, well-parented, 4-year-old girl set. I especially liked the little girls who wore crazy things I’d never worn at that age, like rainboots with a lacy church dress and a unicorn hoodie.

Then one day, in therapy, I was on a little rampage and my therapist said, “wait, what did you just say?”  And I said, “Lookie here, world, I’m 40 years old and I just have this freedom to not have to do thus and so anymore.” And she said, “Tara, how old are you?” Me: “36.” Her: “I need you to do something for me.” Me: “Anything, of course.” And the she said, “I need you to be the age you actually are. No more fast forwards.”

As the kids would say, BAM.

Since that time, I’ve been trying out what it’s like to be the age I actually am. And it turns out to matter. It’s been part of my experience of learning to respect the seasons of life, the necessary beginnings and necessary endings, and learning to joy trip through the process of becoming versus holding my breath until I am a certain way or have a certain thing or have achieved a certain achievement or milestone.

I still hang out with a bunch of badasses, but they’re incredible people of all ages, from 6 to 60, and beyond. I still consume an extraordinary amount of kale, and I know that I’ll open a pug retirement home when I turn 80 and need a new project.

But I’m also delighted to have been 40 this past year, and to be turning 41 this weekend. It’s been quite lovely, really, this learning to act my age. It’s a beautiful gift to be able to look around my life everyday and realize, hey, I really like it here. And now.

P.S.: I issued a 30 Day Writing Challenge for Conscious Leaders a few weeks back, and over 150 brilliant souls signed up! I decided to take the Challenge right along with them, and it’s been a profound journey for many of us. Most people are journaling or free-writing every day, privately. But I wrote this post on Day 7 of the Challenge. I’ll be doing another writing Challenge in January; click here to get on the list for the January Challenge.