I am 46 years old, coming up on 47 in May.
Honestly, that number bothers me. Not because I feel old, but because of what the world seems to say about people once they pass a certain age.
When I watch motivational videos, religious television, or even YouTube encouragement, the message is usually aimed at people in their twenties. There is this quiet assumption that if you are older than that, you should already have it figured out. Your identity. Your calling. Your life.
I listen to pastors and priests speaking to young adults, encouraging them to trust God, to take risks, to listen for His voice, to step into who they are becoming. And I find myself quietly translating their words for me. A woman my age. A woman with four children and twenty-three years of marriage behind her.
I do this because, on the surface, they are not talking to me.
As if becoming has an expiration date and I am somehow past it.
But that idea does not sit right with me. Not as a human being, and certainly not as a Christian.
We are told to call the Creator of heaven and earth Abba. Daddy.
We are told to keep the faith of a child.
To approach God with trust, humility, and dependence.
Yet culturally, we believe adulthood means certainty. That by 30 or 40, curiosity should be replaced with arrival. Questions with answers. Longing with closure.
I don’t believe that. I don’t want that. And I don’t think it’s true.
Becoming is not a failure of maturity. It is a sign of life.
We accept this truth easily in some areas. Take professional athletes, for example. Most retire in their thirties. Their bodies may still be capable, but the system is built on youth, speed, and early peak performance. We understand that sports prioritize the young.
But somewhere along the way, we applied that same logic to the human soul.
As if spiritual growth, purpose, creativity, and discernment follow the same timeline as professional athletics. As if there is a prime age for becoming, and once you pass it, your role is simply to maintain or fade quietly into the background.
That does not reflect reality. And it does not reflect the life of faith.
I have children in almost every stage now. One graduating. One heading into twelfth grade. One moving into high school. A son entering third grade. I have lived long enough to know that while we pour into our children, we do not get to control who they become.
And I have learned this. The most important thing is not their academics. It is not their résumé. It is not even their achievements.
It is the relationship.
That they feel safe at home. Known. Loved. Anchored.
I homeschooled my older children until eighth grade. While teaching curriculum well mattered to me, I learned along the way that love mattered more. Creating secure attachment was paramount. After homeschooling, we chose a private school because it aligned with our worldview. Not because it guarantees anything, but because it pushes back, even slightly, against the effects of the fall. It was my attempt to pour a little more good than harm into their lives.
But I realized something else mattered too.
I mattered.
My husband mattered. My siblings mattered. The other adults I know who are still searching, still longing, still trying to locate meaning in the middle of their lives.
Some people I know have multiple advanced degrees. Some earn six figures. Some changed careers. Some left careers. Some are teachers who no longer teach.
That’s me.
And yet we are all still asking the same question in different ways. Is there joy here? Is there peace? Is there purpose left for me?
I think many in my generation are thinking this same thing, whether we name it or not.
We were given a trajectory early on. Go to college. Get the degree. Find the job. Make the money. Build the life.
And now, years later, many of us are realizing that the life we were promised does not always deliver the joy we expected. There are plenty of successful people who are deeply unhappy, burned out and disconnected. Exhausted by a system that never really asked if this was the life we wanted.
I just finished Finding Alberta, my first novel. The manuscript has been fully edited. I am learning InDesign. Learning tools that sometimes make me want to throw my computer out the window. Adobe has become an unexpected teacher in humility.
But when I finish what I set out to do for the day, I feel it. This quiet electricity. This deep rightness. Joy.
Not the loud kind. The settled kind.
And I cannot prove this, but I believe God is pleased when we use the gifts He placed inside us. Not because we are impressive, but because we are aligned. He made us in His image. He gave us talents on purpose.
This could be what becoming looks like at this age. Not chasing applause. Not reinventing ourselves out of panic. But listening closely to what brings life, and having the courage to follow it.
This post is for people my age and older who feel invisible in a culture obsessed with youth. For those who wonder if it is too late to begin, or try again, or admit they are still learning who they are.
My encouragement is simple.
Keep trying.
Keep searching.
Keep becoming.
It is not too late.
I am excited about my children’s futures. Truly. But I am also excited about mine.
Because as long as I am still becoming, I remain alive. A living organism. Someone my children can plug into for strength, honesty, and example.
This is who God made me to be. And I am still discovering her.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
|
Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
Don’t Miss a Post
Stories of faith, motherhood, and becoming—delivered straight to your inbox.
Leave a Reply