I turned 44 years old this week. Really, I’m just 29!  It’s the joke in our family—“Oh, yeah.  Mom’s 29 this year!”  I figure if I stick with the same number every year it will make it really easy for my kids to always remember my age!

So why age 29 do you ask? Is she just pining for something from her past or does she not want to recognize all of the years in between? Actually, it’s neither.  After all of these years, the reason just came to me. It’s because I was 29 years old when depression hit me.  I was 29 years old when my life took a curve and entered an era of intense struggle and hardship.  I was 29 when I began a journey into the insidiousness of depression that required medication to “level” me out.  I was 29 years old when I began a journey that would involve deep, dark days; moments of agony as I quietly endured; silent heartbreak; days and months and years of wondering who I was turning into; days of wishing I could just be buried in a hole; days when I knew I was not connecting with my children or my husband; days and months and years when I wondered how in the world was I going to make it out of this alive; years of wondering why God handed me this challenge…and years of keeping it mostly a secret as I went about my day-to-day life because I did not want it to define who I knew I really was

29. It’s an odd number.  And it’s the number that marked the beginning of a journey that lasted 12 long years…very long years in many respects.  It is also the number that marks the challenge that had the potential to refine and mold me in ways that I need in order that I could learn how to honor my true self.  It’s the number that began a journey that lives today…a journey that led to unexpected experiences and learning about myself that moved me from chaos to order to creation. Learn more about my journey HERE.

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