The Age of the Heart

Birthdays are funny.

Every year, we celebrate getting one year older. We blow out candles, open gifts, read birthday wishes, and watch that little number beside our age quietly increase by one.

It doesn't sound like much.

Just one number.

But somehow, those numbers eventually become forty...then fifty...then sixty.

The strange part is...

I don't think our hearts ever get the memo.

The older I've gotten, the more I've enjoyed watching my high school friends get older, too. It's surreal to realize that many of the people I sat beside in class are grandparents now. Grandparents! How did that happen?

Then I started thinking about all the other people I've met throughout my life.

Coworkers.

Neighbors.

People from church.

People from different jobs.

Friends I was once inseparable from.

For a season, they were part of my everyday life. We laughed together, celebrated together, leaned on each other, and somehow believed we'd always stay in touch.

Yet, many of them quietly drifted away.

Some, I couldn't even tell you their last name anymore.

Some, I honestly forgot existed until an old photograph reminded me.

Life has a way of doing that.

But high school friends...

We never really forget them.

That realization stopped me in my tracks.

Why?

What makes them different?

After thinking about it for a while, I realized something I had never put into words before.

As our bodies age, our minds don't seem to keep pace.

Our hair turns gray.

Our skin wrinkles.

Some of us gain weight.

Some lose hair.

Our reflection changes every year.

But inside...

Most of us still feel like we're somewhere in our twenties.

Maybe thirty on a good day.

We don't wake up feeling fifty.

We wake up feeling like ourselves.

The same person we've always been.

Then we meet someone new.

They see a middle-aged woman.

Or an older gentleman.

Or a grandmother.

Or a grandfather.

That's their first impression.

That's who they believe we've always been.

But our classmates...

They met us before any of those titles existed.

Before careers.

Before mortgages.

Before marriages.

Before children.

Before caregiving.

Before success.

Before heartbreak.

They met us when we were simply...

...us.

They still picture the class clown.

The cheerleader.

The football captain.

The quiet artist.

The kid who could never stop laughing.

The one who always had a joke.

The one who always had a dream.

When I see many of my classmates today, I honestly find myself thinking...

"My goodness...you haven't changed a bit."

Of course they've changed.

So have I.

But that's not really what I mean.

I'm not talking about wrinkles.

I'm talking about them.

Their smile.

Their laugh.

That sparkle in their eyes.

That little expression they make when they're about to tell a story.

Suddenly...

There they are.

The same person I knew all those years ago.

Maybe that's why reunions feel so different than meeting someone new.

For just a little while...

Nobody is introduced by their résumé.

Nobody is reduced to their age.

Nobody is defined by the titles they've accumulated throughout life.

For a moment...

We're simply the people we used to be.

The people that we still are - - to us.

I'm going to shift lanes for just a minute - while still staying on the same road.

Something else happened in the lives of me and my husband a week ago that also caused me to really think deeper about this subject.

Last Sunday, July the 12th, my husband and I were sitting outside on our front porch. Now, just so you know, there's a whole backstory behind what I'm about to say, and you're more than welcome to visit my personal Facebook page and read my July 12th post to understand better. But, while we were sitting out there, I decided to look up his mom online. They haven't been able to talk in 3 years because his siblings, in Ohio, hid her away so that they couldn't communicate. For three years, we haven't known how she was or where she was - - and trust me, I searched and searched. But, last Sunday, I looked her up - - and immediately, on my screen, was her obituary - - Pearlie Mullins: 01-15-1937 to 06-07-2026.

Five weeks. She had passed FIVE weeks ago...and nobody to this day has reached out to tell him. 

As you can imagine, he fell apart. 

Over this past week, that has obviously been heavy on my heart. But when I thought about all that I've been talking about - - our high school friends still seeing us the way we see ourselves - - I realized...

...so do our moms.

To our moms, we're all still their little girls and boys. Whether you're 20 and their 42 or you're 65 and they're 87. You're still seen the way you still see yourself.

Besides all of the obvious reasons, maybe THAT'S what keeps us so close to our moms.

And so, in conclusion, maybe that's the greatest gift our old classmates - and moms - unknowingly give us.

They remind us that underneath every gray hair, every wrinkle, every responsibility, every accomplishment, every disappointment, and every year we've lived...

...the younger version of ourselves never actually disappeared.

They just grew up.

Take this with you...

If today happens to be your birthday—or even if it isn't—I hope you remember this:

Don't measure your life by the number of candles on your cake.

Measure it by the parts of yourself you've never lost.

Those are the parts that the people who knew you first still recognize.

And maybe...

They're the parts worth holding onto forever. ❤️

~ Michelle Mullins ~
Founder & Creative Director
Amplified Imagination Studios

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