You’re probably believing the lie. I am. It’s nearly impossible not to, because it’s everywhere.
It’s in the anti-aging creams, the plastic surgery clinics, the countless how-to articles boasting how quickly they can help you get rid of that embarrassing sagging skin and those pesky wrinkles. It’s in Hollywood’s obsession with youth. It’s in the mirror when our eyes are clouded with distorted expectations.
We pluck our gray hairs, and we stretch smooth our creased skin, and we forget the truth.
The truth is that beauty is not skin-deep. The truth is that our worth and value as wives, as moms, as humans is in no way related to or dependent upon whether we look old or young for our age. The truth is that an aging body is not a problem that needs to be fixed.
The truth is hidden deep in laugh lines that tell of a life lived looking straight into the light.
The truth is written between the lines, white and hard-earned, on the now-soft belly that once contained eight pounds of brand new life.
The truth is whispered through faded lips, once taut and vibrant, who spent their lives kissing boo-boos and babies’ foreheads and their husband’s aging counterparts.
The truth is held in weathered hands, strong and calloused from holding tight through the harshest seasons, yet quick to open, eager to give whatever can be spared.
The truth is that the easy, wrinkled hands of age are infinitely more beautiful than strained fists clenching the last remnants of youth.
The truth is that aging gracefully has little to do with skin care and everything to do with a life well-spent.