I’m turning 28 next month. I don’t feel old at all. I feel vibrantly, joyfully young. For a rare moment in my adult life, I feel beautiful. Exuberant. I have medication that makes my life easier to handle than it was a decade ago. I am in better shape than I’ve ever been. I am in love. I’m working towards new languages and professional certifications. I have a more solid understanding of who I am than I did at the beginning of my second decade. Thirty isn’t old—and twenty-eight isn’t old. I almost chuckle when other people my age fret about turning the big 3-Oh, but I know agism is real and harmful, especially for women. I just…don’t feel that way myself. I feel like I am starting over, like I am just beginning my life. It’s a good feeling. I look in the mirror and I see a woman of indeterminate age with bright, curious eyes and a strong body, and I don’t worry how many years she carries under her gaze.

