When I was little, I remember seeing decorations for a 40th birthday party. “Over the hill,” the black balloon read. Back then, it felt like a lifetime away before I’d ever be that much of a grown up. Now here I am, feeling that’s hardly enough time.

My parents, in-laws, and even a grandmother are still alive. My youngest is a kindergartner and my oldest is still at least a head shorter than me. Graduations and marriage for my kids aren’t even on the horizon. Retirement plans are for the generation before me.

However recent tests have forced me to face a very different reality now than I could have imagined. “Life is short,” we all say. But do we really believe it? If you could know when your life’s clock was going to run out, what would you do with the time you have left?

By the end of 2023, I should know more answers; I’m just not sure I want to. I believe wise people plan for the worst and hope for the best. I’ve been doing a lot of processing the last couple of months, weighing who I should tell or even if I should say anything at all.

In the meantime, I have become a master of “fake it ’til you make it.” I do whatever means necessary to look like the picture of health, paying the price in private. Even when pressed, I dive into a verbal gymnastics routine; I’ll do anything to avoid talking about myself. In a way, it’s selfish. Connecting with my friends meets the need to be distracted about everything I can’t control.

I know it’s unsustainable. Denying my reality won’t make it untrue. For now, the path is really uncertain. Every round of tests brings enough proof for concern to order more. Each specialist wants another one to weigh in. Nobody has any definitive answers yet. The stakes couldn’t be higher to get it right.

So we wait. Prognosis and treatment are up in the air. I’ve lost track of how many medications have been added and subtracted, putting my body in a constant state of flux. Sometimes the physical pain is unbearable. The cost has to be counted before every energy expenditure. Each day is dealt with moment by moment.

It’s strange. Facing “the worst” has brought me inexplicable peace. Sure, I have a long bucket list of places I’d like to see. But there’s nothing I’d change about my everyday life because I have things money can’t buy: family and friends I adore in a place I love. Contentment and joy aren’t in possessions; they’re gifts from God. I can see beauty everywhere.

Letting go of my pursuit of perfection has also helped me have a new perspective. My kids don’t need more activities to make them happy. They need me fully present. My husband didn’t marry me for my productivity. He married me for who I am. My friends don’t see me as a burden. They really just love and care about me. What more could I want?