Life After 23

I'd like to say that I finally found my writing materials that had been lost in the moving boxes, and that is why I am finally returning after my eight-and-a-half-month hiatus.  But in this age of technology and internet clouds, that can no longer be my excuse.  Food for thought in the examination of today's generation, but I digress. When I first started my short run at this blog last year, it was because I had never dared to plan or dream past age 23, and therefore had the feeling that, in a way, my life was over.  At least, my life as I had always imagined it was over.  I had just found out that bearing children - if that was even an option anymore - was unlikely without fertility treatments.  The only dream/goal I had allowed myself after age 23 was suddenly ripped out from under me and dangled somewhere ahead in the dark mist of the future, taunting me with the possibility that, even then, it was only a mirage. At the beginning of this blog, I ha...

In a couple of months, I will leave age 23 behind forever.  I realize that I am still young, but for the first time in my life, I am not happy about reaching my next birthday.  When I was a kid, I couldn't imagine myself not wanting to get older.  Now, I can't imagine wanting my age to increase. For as long as I can remember, I have had well-established dreams and goals for my life.  By the time I hit middle school, I had a plan.  I would go to a small university, preferably one like Camp bell University, and major in something government related.  Hopefully a fellow I wanted to date would come along during that time.  I would graduate with honors and use that education to make a difference in the lives of the unborn and their mothers facing crisis pregnancies.  Marriage would follow on the heels of college, preferably to a man modeled after my childhood best friend.  While I continued to work with ministry to the unborn, my husband and I w...