Part 2: Aging Gracefully:
As I sat there, watching Kel say “I do,” with Becky, her twin sister standing so proudly beside her, something deep stirred in me.
Across the room, I caught glimpses of our parents — faces gently lined with stories, eyes still sparkling with the memories of when they stood where we now stand.
And in the same breath, I watched our kids — wild on the dance floor, laughter bursting out of them like confetti.
Free. Full of promise. Untouched by the weight of the world.
It felt like my whole life flashed before my eyes.
I saw myself at six, sitting on cracked school benches with Kelly & Becky (the 3 of us always dressed the same), turning our primary school into our own private kingdom.
I remembered family holidays — the Gold Coast, the Flinders Ranges, campfires, school quiz nights and our regular Friday takeaway/card nights (well our parents played cards, we made up the most outlandish storylines with our Barbie dolls).
Hours of fun in the pool. Endless tea parties.
We weren’t just friends.
We were family.
Their uncles and aunties, grandparents and siblings all knew me like one of their own.
Likewise, my aunts and uncles still stop to chat with them at the supermarket if they see them now.
I remembered my first car accident. I was barely 18.
Mum and Dad were away in Perth. My boyfriend at the time was driving — I’d just lost my licence after my epilepsy diagnosis. A man ran a red light, turning in front of us, and we hit him head-on.
Right on my side of the car. I was so tiny, I slid half way under the seatbelt. Emergency services pulled me free.
The next thing I remember, I was at the Royal Adelaide. My brother ran across the city from work to find me.
And somehow — without a single phone call — Kelly & Becky’s parents were already there.
That’s what love looks like.
Not just blood — bond.
We’ve Grown Up Together
I saw us as teenagers, chasing adulthood like it was the ultimate prize.
I saw Kelly and Becky trying to anchor me when I went a little off the rails — and loving themselves enough to let me go when I went completely off the rails.
But they stayed connected enough so I always knew: if I needed them, they were there.
Our twenties — filled with hope, heartbreak, late nights, and life lessons.
The first weddings. The losses. The births of our babies.
The breakdowns of our marriages — well, except Becky still going strong with her first.
The betrayals that blindsided us.
The moments that broke us.
And the ones that helped us rise again.
And now, here we are.
Standing in the middle of Part Two.
Watching our parents, knowing they once stood exactly where we are.
Watching our children, knowing they’ll stand here too, someday soon.
What Aging Gracefully Really Means
It’s humbling.
It’s beautiful.
And honestly? It’s terrifying.
Because aging gracefully isn’t about hiding the silver in your hair or pretending your body doesn’t ache.
It’s about letting the cycle of life unfold in front of you — and choosing to meet it with open arms, not clenched fists.
It’s knowing that time is both a thief and a gift.
It steals moments, yes — but it gives us something softer in return.
Perspective.
Grace.
The ability to hold the chaos and still find beauty in it.
The memories we make today become the stories our children carry forward.
And that night, I saw that so clearly.
The way Kelly danced with her kids — laughter spilling from them like it always did when we were young.
Watching Becky and her husband still cutting up the dance floor like it was their wedding night all over again, twenty years on.
The laughter. The tears.
The friendships that keep standing after all these years — these are the legacies we leave behind.
Maybe aging gracefully isn’t just about ourselves.
Maybe it’s about honouring those who came before.
Loving those who walk beside us.
And living in such a way that we leave light behind for the ones who come next.
So that one day, our children will look back and say:
“They truly lived. And they truly loved.”
Last night, I felt that.
The weight and the beauty of all my years.
The lessons etched into my soul.
The love that’s held me upright through it all.
And the quiet, steady hope that even as time moves on —
the heart of who we are remains.
