Here I am, at thirty-five,
enjoying the girl’s night I never had—
once uninvited, an oddball,
entertaining imaginary friends
alone in my younger years.

Here I am, at thirty-five,
like a teen, mastering make-up,
for I was once afraid to show my feminine side,
scared of being labeled foolish and weak.
Now, I am rewriting these cruel stereotypes.

Here I am, at thirty-five,
in the linen, pale pink dress I’ve eyed all week,
all giggly with three kindred souls at a fancy, fun luncheon,
after spending the night chatting about men and what-not—
funny how society teaches girls to compete, not connect.

Here I am, at thirty-five,
said to be expired; I found liberation instead,
free to be authentic and ignore judgments,
since nobody bats their eyes anymore, not that we care—
as we receive more love from ourselves than anyone else has ever given.

“Women support women” is not a myth
when you meet the right people
who know how to love themselves so fully
they overflow with support
and uplift each other effortlessly.