No. 22: Birthday Reflections and the January Favorites

The year I've had my eye on my whole life snuck up and hit me like a truck

I thought I’d be different by now.

The other day, I sent a text to a friend who is part of the Cincinnati Bengals family to say, “losing a championship game is the worst and I’m so sorry.” Her response was, “We’re headed to Fiji in the offseason and that softens the blow!” A warmth spread across my chest like a hug at that thought. Instantly, I began to dig for photos from the Fiji portion of our honeymoon and once I found them, I felt teary all of the sudden. I was a baby. I was 21. I remember being her. The shimmery bronze college athlete with muscles that reflected years of training and a head full of extensions that tangled so bad I promised-and held to it-to never get them again.

I don’t suuuper recommend looking at that version of yourself over while in a bralette and no bottoms in bed during your second trimester of pregnancy. I was staring at the honeymoon version of me when my phone went dark and I caught a glimpse of the orangutan version of myself staring back at me in the dark screen. Let’s just say—that moment wont make my ‘Top 10 Best Feelings’ list. That’s no way to ensure sweet dreams, friends.

annnnd,

That’s beside the point, though. What I really thought when I flipped through those photos was that I remember feeling so grown up then. I was a woman. I was married. We were traveling and dreaming and as a student a few credits away from her Fine Art and Fashion Merchandising degree, the world was at my fingertips.


If you went to Christian schools or Sunday school growing up, do you remember your general middle and high-school chapel experience? If yours was anything like mine, you likely had adults with various professions and backgrounds come in, list off all the ways their past-lives were sinful (painted a specific shade of awesome if you asked 15 year old me) always followed up with, “but then, at my rock bottom, the Lord saved me.” Rock bottom was typically in their thirties, by the way, and I paid attention to this. I remember making the mental note over and over again, “I’ve got time.”

That’s not the right way to approach faith, of course. I need to make that extra clear and the book of Romans has quite a bit to say about it as well. I wouldn’t come to know the true gospel until I was 19, but I know for a fact that well before then, Jesus being 33 at the time of his crucifixion had such an impact on me. I’ve also shared in the past that at two pivotal moments in my childhood, I felt a boldness and urgency to ask an adult how old they were and despite being almost a decade apart—both adults were 33.

The first time this happened, we were unpacking the car for a week at the lake with family and friends. This was a family tradition I looked forward to all year where our favorite people and dearest loved ones everywhere from Dallas, Detroit, Chicago and everywhere in-between would drive up to a string of houses on Green Lake in Wisconsin for one week of the summer. Everyone’s car was a treasure trove that seemed to encapsulate that specific family perfectly. Some brought fishing poles and craft supplies and bikes with streamers, some packed loads of candy and comic books. As I helped my aunt unload her van after my three cousins had spilled out and ran off to play, I was mesmerized by her. She is and always has been a true doppelgänger for Princess Diana and in her pleated khaki shorts and sleeveless crisp polo, I just had to know how old I needed to be to look like that. “Auntie Kerry, how old are you?” I asked with half a saran-wrapped watermelon in my arms. She smiled and told me she was 33.

The next time, I was seventeen. I’d been nannying the same kids for years and the mother of those beautiful children I adored so much just couldn’t have been cooler to me. She was naturally breathtaking, skin the same exact shade of brown as mine and never wore a stitch of makeup. She had graduated from MIT, taught her children Mandarin, was studying photography and managed to volunteer for just about everything while being a present and supportive coaches wife. In the sunny kitchen of their home in Palo Alto, I noticed a new bottle of prenatals on the counter. My mom would kill me for my next two moves (sorry mom, yes I knew better) but in swift succession I committed two of the biggest “absolutely nevers” of womanhood: I asked her if she was pregnant and asked her how old she was. She laughed, told me I was like a little sister to her, and said “yes, I actually just found out I’m pregnant again. You’re literally the first person I’m telling. We’re a bit surprised but we’re so excited. Oh, and I’m 33.”

Thirty-three. When Jesus was thirty three, he had lived a perfect life and died a perfect death. When Auntie Kerry was thirty three, she had mastered the working mom thing while ensuring her family looked like a Lands End catalog and her home looked like Martha Stewart herself cared for it. When my friend who I’ll let remain nameless was thirty three, she had graduated from one of the best schools in the world, raised two brilliant and compassionate children while pregnant with a third, knew how to do things like taxes and develop black and white photos. This was my standard.

12 years ago me was newly married and building a portfolio for graduation. I’m sure I thought maybe I’d open a boutique by 33. Maybe I’d have my own collection. Maybe I’d be a stylist to the stars or write a healthy cookbook or move to Europe for a year in the space between O retiring from football and becoming a mother. I might be a thriving artist with a loyal customer base. I had time.

8 years ago me was in the throes of new motherhood. I bet I thought I’d have a consistent babysitter and would be better at prioritizing sleep by now. I was positive I’d be on top of scheduling regular trims and have a cleaning schedule that would make my grandma proud. Maybe I’d learn how to delegate the parts of my work that keep me up all evening and say no more often. I’d surely figure it out. I had time.

3 years ago me was entering into a pandemic with health scares and an identity crisis tucked tightly under her arm. I’m sure I thought I’d consume far more scripture than true crime and be more tender. That I’d be a fun mom. A yes mom. I’d definitely have a perfect system for laundry. I just knew that in three years, I’d have a better handle on my anxiety and would be able to call discontentment an “old struggle.” I wasn’t there yet, but it was okay. I had time.

I’ll be 33 in just a few days and I can confirm that the sheer passing of time didn’t make any of those assumptions true.

But none of those versions of me could have predicted what the Lord has allowed me to walk through in the journey to this birthday. I wish I could tell her that when our plane landed for a business trip in Dallas and we said “I think we’ll live here one day,” that we were right. I wish I could tell her that we’d lose a baby and it would break us, but day by day we would heal and learn to hope. I wish I could tell her that the thing we were battling is an autoimmune disease and it’s scary and it will rock us and change nearly everything about us—but also, it will be the thing that keeps us on our knees.

I wish I could tell her that leaving social media is scary, but the right move for us. That being deathly afraid of vomit simply isn’t a thing in motherhood and by the time our firstborn is 1, we’ll be able to strip a soiled sheet, clean the kid up, put a plastic bag in a bucket and pat their back while they do it again with no sweat. I want to let her know that marriage counseling is worth every minute and every penny. That our marriage would indeed stop feeling like eggshells and landmines and will become the sweetest part of our lives.

I want to tell her that no, I don’t have a boutique and no, I never mastered calligraphy despite buying the kit. I still have work to do on my anxiety and I’m still practicing the art of “fun.” But my kids are my favorite babies on the planet, I get to write for a living, I often have weekly dinners at my parents house with my siblings and I homeschool for half of every week (she’ll never believe it.) I’d love to tell her that I don’t really put that degree to use and sometimes I feel strange about that, but I’m more at peace with the way I spend my time than I ever have been in my life. Most importantly, I love and trust the Lord with everything I’ve got despite and because of it all.

I’m not where I thought I’d be,

but by God’s grace, I’m not where I used to be.

I love the view from 33.

1. top & bottom | 4. | 6. | 8. | 9. | 10.

Episode 2 of the good as gold podcast went live this week and it’s…intimate. We’re talking about conception itself and the waiting game but if you know me, you know I think it’s most helpful to tell it like it is while keeping proper boundaries up. Just know, the topic alone will tell you whether or not the episode is for you!

I was hunting for a paleo chocolate chip muffin recipe at 3am (pregnancy insomnia is going great, thanks) and came across this one. The girls and I made them to soften the blow of Lema being able to go to Legoland with a friend while they were “stuck home” and I can confirm, they’re perfect. I prefer maple syrup to honey in baked goods so I subbed that and, as always, added a few more dairy-free chocolate chips for good measure.

I listened to some vintage Drake while working the other day for some reason and it took me back. Highly recommend. This is a great place to start.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—fits me well right now. My jeans that zip don’t look right on my legs, my sweats that weren’t oversized and baggy to begin with are looking more like leggings on me and when I wear O’s giant sweats, I look like a baked potato. We’re at the rough Venn-diagram of mid-pregnancy and dead of winter where getting dressed is pure misery so this sweatsuit top + bottom with these earrings, this ear cuff, this chain and this necklace is an outfit on a twice-a-week rotation. Come Spring, I’ll be in breezy dresses and sweet blouses but right now, I’m rockin’ The Santa Claus style and it’s the best I can do. (see it in action in this blog post)

We’re in a winter storm warning for most of the week. I grew up in Chicago, O is Canadian, my family lived in Minnesota…I understand that 30° is not cold. But for Texas, it turns everything upside down and you know what, after six years of living here, it actually is kind of cold. I made my favorite pot roast to start the week and panned on serving it with mashed potatoes. I forgot to grab yukon golds and I strictly only grocery shop Monday and Saturday, so I had to improvise. I had all the ingredients for sweet potato casserole on hand so I made that instead and guys, I’m just here to recommend Thanksgiving food on an icy Monday. 10/10.

Lastly, I did not watch the video this time. My spirit couldn’t take it. I hate that there’s a this time. I’ve heard Tyler Perry’s words and thinks he said it best so I’ll leave it there. Rest in peace, Tyre Nichols, another young father taken too soon because he has more melanin than the world was trained to see as “safe,” “good, “worthy of life.”

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question to discuss in the comments: does anyone else have a specific age you thought you’d have it all together? or a vivid childhood memory tied to the age of an adult? 33 shaped me for years, man, I can’t believe I’m here!

The next time we speak, O and Keogena will have gone to their first daddy-daughter dance, my grown-out-beyond-reason hair will be freshly red and I will be 33 years old. Thats the kind of sentence that would make O sing this song to me on the spot and he’s not wrong. What a difference a day makes. (jokes on me. I wrote this email at the start of the week and since then, our entire city has shut down and we haven’t left the house in days due to an ice storm. Daddy daughter dance was cancelled, my hair appointment was cancelled and the song is more relevant than ever!)

Have a beautiful weekend, friends.