Most of my life I identified as a desperate, single, young female. The kind of girl who always chased after the wrong type of guy. The kind of girl who completely ignored red flags and who saw emotionally unavailable men as “mysterious.” The kind of girl who desperately hoped that the guy she was seeing would be the one to fill the insatiable hole in her heart. Without even realizing it, I had become an overplayed Hollywood trope, crying alone in my bed, wishing that prince charming would come and save my desperate, broke ass.

But recently I’ve realized that none of those overplayed monikers apply to me anymore. I am no longer desperate. I am no longer single. And I am certainly no longer young. At 42 years old, I have delayed securing the major life milestone that generations in the past so easily obtained. On the cusp of middle age and perimenopause, I find myself about to be a bride for the first time in my life. After nearly five years together, I will be marrying my fiancé in 47 days. And I am scared shitless.

love, Lexy