Certain birthdays

Age 65. I’ve been thinking about it a lot as it’s been approaching.

4.29.22, 9:00 a.m. Julie, concentrating on her work, never looked up as I walked into the living room, took this picture, and left.

When I turned 30—an age I wanted to hit as, working in the business world, I sometimes felt less respected because of my youth—I decided most gladly-anticipated birthdays—in my book, they are 5, 13, 16, 18, and 21—were behind me. Because 65 is the typical retirement age, I thought that was the next, and probably only one I would ever again look forward to.

Changing careers in my 30s, I was ordained into the ministry at 39. Turning 40 was barely a blip on the radar screen of my mind, because I was so happy to have achieved the goal of uprooting my family, leaving my hometown and job, and doing well as a second-career student. I and my family had safely arrived at career number two.

Then 50 was bearing down. I hated it. It bothered me from the day I turned 49 and kept haunting me after I passed 51. I loathed that I was aging.

Looking back at those days, I now can see I was on the slow descent into self-hatred because of the gender conflict that had pestered me ever since my youth. Gradually and methodically, it sought to destroy me.

Because I was ordained at 39, my thought was to be a pastor at least thirty years and, if I reached age 69 and was healthy and still loved the work, I would keep going. The sense deepened after marrying Julie, who is fifteen years my junior—I was determined to hit 70 and keep going.

When in 2013 I crashed with gender dysphoria, I was forced to retire the next year at age 57. I did everything I could not to retire, pushing the date back three times. I was going to therapy, went on depression medication, and begged the Lord to heal me.

I was suicidal. I had to get out of there. “Maybe, retirement will help,” I thought. Pish.

The years heading toward 60 were the hardest of my life. When 2017 arrived, in the months leading up to my birthday I’d resigned myself to being a transwoman. Two weeks before my 60th birthday, I went into bottom surgery with confidence.

Turning 60 was akin to turning 40. My life was changing because I’d accomplished a huge goal. I was content.

As I’ve documented in my memoir, “A Roller Coaster Through a Hurricane,” before I hit 61 I ceased experiencing myself as female. Because I’d fully transitioned, that nearly destroyed me. After months of struggle and returning to a therapist, I was finally able to trust that I would continue to experience myself as male, resume living as Greg, and settle in.

That was four years ago.

Early in 2022, I realized something. It began in May of 2021, after I took up writing fiction: I am at peace with myself.

The psychologist I saw in 2018 told me that people need three things in life to be happy and content. They need love, fun, and meaningful work.

I’ve always been blessed with love, from the home of my youth, to my marriages and children, to good friends. Surrounded by love, in a family of good-natured, fun-loving people, fun has never been in short supply.

But, since retiring, I still missed being a pastor. After I published my first two books, I struggled with finding meaningful work that I love, outside of making supper and gardening. I remembered the novel I started in 2006, so I found the file and began reading. Not only did I like the twelve chapters, inspiration struck for how to proceed.

The rest of the book flew out of my brain and into my fingers. As I approach the one-year mark since I restarted writing fiction, I’ve published the first book, have a second in the editing process, and two more that are almost done. I love the creative process!

I write seven days a week. I can’t wait to get up in the morning, to start my routine, then to write, to go jogging, to have lunch and take a nap, write some more, make supper, and enjoy the evening with Julie and our favorite shows.

I am healthy and strong. I can’t stop the ever-growing numbers in my age, but I can keep myself from growing old. That’s one reason I decided to work myself hard so I could mark my 65th birthday with my longest run ever. Sure, I only beat my 22-year-old personal best by 1/10th of a mile, but I did it.

I needed to do it as a symbol of how I’m feeling these days. I am strong and healthy. I am happy and content. I have love and fun and, once again, I have meaningful work.

Each day, I thank the Lord for everything He’s given me. I have no intentions of slowing down. I’m enjoying life as much as ever.

As much as ever.

I am healthy—mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually.

That makes me smile . . . and kind of amazes me.