While my peers are posting photos of their empty nests, beach vacations, and grandchildren, I am relearning the alphabet. While they are discussing retirement portfolios, I am negotiating with a tiny human about why we don’t eat Play-Doh.
I am a "mature" mom. Not "old." Mature.
At this age, the tired is just… physical. And I’ve survived physical exhaustion before. I’ve survived heartbreak, career collapses, funerals, and the slow realization that life doesn’t owe you a single thing. mature mom
There is a difference.