I still remember a time, not long ago, when I thought 53 years old was ancient. Over the hill. An old man. As my odometer rolls up to this digit today, I can’t really say that I feel how I once imagined I would feel at my age. Then again, how is 53 supposed to feel like anyway? I mean, I’ve made a certain peace with the fact that my body is gently falling apart. It’s inevitable. Part of this whole deal. But I also recognize this transformation as a privilege. Too many don’t get to see what they look like with grey or no hair and wrinkled skin. Too many don’t get to experience the physical sensations of living in this middle-aged body. For that, I am very grateful to have been gifted this past year. My flesh and bones aren’t what they used to. But inside, I can definitely feel changes that are slowly happening as well. Self-acceptance. Nothing to prove anymore. A deeper understanding of my own truthfulness. They say that age is just a number. But maybe age is really more a level of consciousness. A measure of how connected we are to our true self. A gauge of how disconnected we have become from our ego. Maybe aging well is about awareness and letting what was never real in the first place die to make room for the emergence of who we really are. Maybe growing old gracefully is in our ability to sit and breathe peacefully in silence. Maybe it’s all about growing younger in our authenticity. An ongoing inner truth revolution. This is my 53.