I still mother them….

Turning 60 has given me a different perspective on a lot of things.

For so much of my life, I measured my days by what I accomplished. How many people I helped. How many phone calls I returned. How many things I crossed off my list before I finally sat down at night. I convinced myself that if I just worked a little harder, loved a little bigger, gave a little more of myself, somehow I’d finally feel like I had done enough.

The funny thing is, “enough” kept moving.

There was always one more email. One more person who needed me. One more errand. One more project. One more thing I thought I should have done better.

But this birthday was different.

I spent it surrounded by people who love me exactly as I am. There wasn’t a scorecard. Nobody cared how many things I had accomplished that week. They didn’t love me because I checked every box. They loved me because I was there. We laughed. We ate my favorite meal. We sang Happy Birthday. We listened to my favorite music. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt something that had been missing.

Peace.

It made me realize that maybe I’ve been asking myself the wrong question all these years.

Instead of asking, “Did I do enough?” maybe I should be asking, “Do my actions show that I’m doing the best I can?”

Because actions don’t lie.

Did I love the people around me?

Did I make someone feel heard?

Did I show kindness when it would have been easier to be impatient?

Did I give what I honestly had to give today?

Did I tell the people I love that I love them?

Did I remember to give myself the same grace I so freely hand out to everyone else?

If the answer is yes, then maybe I need to stop carrying around guilt for all the things I couldn’t do.

I’ve also learned that my best isn’t going to look the same every day.

Some mornings I wake up ready to take on the world. Other mornings grief is waiting for me before my feet even touch the floor. Some days I feel like I can conquer anything. Other days, getting through the day without falling apart is the victory.

Both are enough.

I’ve buried two children. I’ve learned that tomorrow isn’t promised. I’ve learned that the people we love don’t remember whether the laundry was folded or every email was answered. They remember whether we were present. Whether we laughed with them. Whether we hugged them a little longer. Whether they felt loved.

That’s the legacy I want.

I don’t want to spend whatever years I have left chasing perfection. I want to spend them chasing moments. Dinners around the table. Conversations that matter. Sunsets. Grandchildren’s laughter. Time with my family. Time with friends who know every broken piece of my heart and love me anyway.

At the end of each day, I don’t want my worth to be measured by my productivity. I want it to be measured by my actions.

Did I love well?

Did I show up?

Did I leave people feeling better than when I found them?

If I can answer yes to those questions, then I can lay my head on the pillow knowing I did the best I could.

And after 60 years, I’m finally beginning to believe…

That really is enough.