How lucky we are that we get to see all the changes. What if we looked in the mirror every morning and were proud of every new wrinkle or grey hair. That we reminded ourselves that we are in the next phase not even one gets to live.

What if we stopped borrowing grief from a future that has not arrived, and instead pressed our palms flat against the present moment, feeling its warmth, its roughness, its stubborn aliveness?

What if every silver strand were a medal, quietly pinned to us by time itself, in recognition of every storm we weathered, every laugh that creased our face, every night we stayed up worrying about someone we loved, because love, too, leaves its marks?

What if the deepening lines around our eyes were not evidence of fading, but a map, a cartography of a life fully inhabited, of places visited, of tears shed without apology, of joy so wide it had nowhere else to go but outward, into the skin?

What if we understood, truly understood, that to grow old is the most radical act of survival? That somewhere, someone who never got the chance would give anything to stand where we stand, tired, a little slower, but here. Undeniably, gloriously here.