As of today, I’m 39 years old. I was talking to a friend last night, and she said, "I don’t worry about the number — I just think about where I am and what I’ve accomplished to see if I’m on track."

We then proceeded to attend a small dinner party that included indulgent food and too much wine, and I certainly didn’t feel I was acting any age I’ve been in the last decade. But that’s beside the point.

Her comment really has me thinking. When my mother turned 39, she had a very tough time. We other family members quietly left her presents in the bathroom for her to discover. Celebrating was out of the question. I’m not feeling threatened or unhappy about my new number, but I’m not sure it’s because I’m comfortable with what I’ve accomplished. When I turned 30, I cried for days, mainly because I hadn’t accomplished a goal I had set to be published by 30.

But today, now, these days, for the past several years…. I don’t really feel a ticking clock beside me. In fact, making the move to be a professional writer has instead made me more comfortable with the clock. I always imagined I’d use writing as a retirement plan, and now that I’m working for myself, I don’t have to worry about ageism or sexism or a lot of -isms, real or imagined, that may have affected how confident I felt in a more conventional job.

I’m good at what I do. I’m glad I’m doing it. And my age at this point is just a number.