I always dreaded the thought of growing old. Everyone does at one point or another. But I thought that it would just be impossible for me. With the way my health is, I kept telling myself that I would be lucky to make it over the age of 40. But it didn’t matter to me. I never expected to share my life with someone anyway, and I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about my future. I saw myself continuing to be a nerdy, half-hermit, single and absolutely mediocre person.

But, as with many things, it changed. This viewpoint, however, was something I thought I could never give up. No matter how hard I tried, I found it increasingly more difficult to cling onto whatever hope I had left. Yet somehow, he got to me.

For once in my entire life, I felt truly loved. Every single part of me – loved. Simply that. Not enough words and cliches can describe the way this feels, and my heart no longer belongs to me. I’m learning to let myself go, and it’s an achingly beautiful pain that stays with my day by day. To worry for someone else, to care for them, to happily sacrifice pieces of yourself to make things work…

This. And so much more. For the first time, I want to grow old. I want to grow old with the only man I have ever fallen in love with, and it’s painful to hope that my body won’t fail me. But I tell myself that whether or not we can lie together, embracing our wrinkles and our wisdom, I have been the happiest I have ever been in my entire life.