Today is the last day of September.

My birthday month.

Sixty-three years around the sun.

Which sounds like I should know some things by now.

And I do.

I know how I take my coffee. I know I would rather travel than buy almost anything. I know that comfortable shoes eventually win, no matter how cute the others are. I know that grief can sit right next to joy and neither one has to leave the room. I know that God has been much more patient with me than I have been with myself.

I know a few things.

But at 63, I am also very aware of how much I am still learning.

I am still unfinished.

And strangely, I think that may be one of the best things about getting older.

For years, I think I assumed there would be an age when I would arrive.

You know—there.

The mythical place where I would finally have myself figured out.

I would know exactly who I was. I would stop second-guessing myself. I would have impeccable boundaries. I would no longer replay conversations in my head wondering if I said the wrong thing.

And, obviously, everyone would like me.

That last one is proving particularly stubborn.

Apparently 63 trips around the sun have not completely cured me of wanting approval.

I am working on it.

Because this year I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be unapologetic.

The word can sound aggressive.

Like I am going to storm into a room, knock over a chair and announce that I no longer care what anyone thinks.

That isn’t what it means to me at all.

Unapologetic isn’t rude.

It isn’t hard.

It isn’t selfish.

It isn’t becoming so certain of myself that I stop listening to anyone else.

For me, becoming unapologetic is much quieter than that.

It is finding my voice and actually using it.

It is being comfortable enough with myself that I don’t have to constantly edit who I am depending on who is in the room.

It is saying yes because I mean yes.

And learning to say no without writing a three-paragraph explanation afterward.

It is looking in the mirror and making peace with the woman standing there.

Warts.

Wrinkles.

Contradictions.

Bad decisions.

Good instincts.

Tender heart.

Occasional head trash.

All of it.

Maybe especially all of it.

Lately, I have become fascinated with understanding my own particular makeup.

Not so I can put myself into another box. God knows I’ve spent enough of my life climbing into and out of boxes.

But because there is something freeing about understanding the machinery.

Why do I do what I do?

Why do some things light me up while others drain the life out of me?

Why can I be wildly outgoing and still stand at the edge of the room waiting for someone to invite me in?

Why can I travel across an ocean by myself but hesitate before walking into a gathering where I don’t know anyone?

Why do I want to be seen and sometimes simultaneously want to hide?

I can look at astrology and say, Well, hello, Virgo.

I can look at Human Design and the idea of being a Projector, waiting for recognition and invitation, and think, Well, that explains a few things.

I can explore Destiny Mapping and personality frameworks and all the other fascinating ways we humans try to understand ourselves.

And I don’t need any one of them to explain me completely.

Maybe they are simply mirrors.

Ways of noticing.

Ways of becoming curious instead of critical.

Because that may be one of the biggest shifts happening in me at 63.

I am less interested in fixing myself.

I am more interested in knowing myself.

There is a difference.

For much of my life, self-improvement came with the underlying assumption that somewhere inside me was a better version I needed to uncover.

Less emotional.

Less sensitive.

Less worried about disappointing people.

More disciplined.

More confident.

More organized.

Thinner.

Calmer.

Better.

But what if becoming isn’t about turning ourselves into someone else?

What if it is about becoming more honest about the person who has been there all along?

I am an extrovert who sometimes wants an invitation.

I am independent and I want to belong.

I am brave and I get scared.

I have a voice and sometimes I still swallow my words.

I believe deeply in God and still have questions.

I love people and sometimes need to get very far away from them.

I am confident and insecure.

Grateful and restless.

Certain and unfinished.

Human.

At 63, perhaps I am finally learning that these things don’t cancel each other out.

They make a whole person.

And maybe being unapologetic begins there.

Not with declaring, I don’t care what anybody thinks.

Because I do care.

I probably always will.

I care about people. I care about connection. I care when I hurt someone. I care how my words land.

What I am trying to learn is that caring what someone thinks of me does not mean I have to become what they want me to be.

That is different.

And it is harder.

I can be kind without disappearing.

I can listen without abandoning myself.

I can change my mind without betraying who I am.

I can disappoint someone and survive it.

Well, THAT one may need another 63 years around the sun!

But I’m working on it.

September has been a month of travel and homecoming, birthday candles and questions, old places and new versions of myself.

And now the month is ending.

Tomorrow is October.

Another page.

Another season.

Another chance to practice becoming the woman I already am.

Not louder for the sake of being loud.

Not rebellious for the sake of rebellion.

Not unapologetic because I suddenly have nothing left to learn.

Quite the opposite.

I am unapologetic because I am still learning.

Still changing.

Still curious.

Still getting things wrong.

Still finding my voice.

Still figuring out when to wait for the invitation—and when to walk through the damn door anyway.

Sixty-three years around the sun.

Wrinkles included.

Warts included.

Questions included.

A heart that still wants everyone to like me included.

I don’t think the goal is to arrive anymore.

I think the goal is to keep becoming more fully myself.

To take up the space that is mine without stealing anyone else’s.

To tell the truth with kindness.

To want what I want.

To listen when something inside me whispers, This doesn’t fit anymore.

To trust that God isn’t finished with me simply because I have crossed another birthday off the calendar.

Neither am I.

And maybe that’s the whole beautiful point.

I am 63.

I am unfinished.

And I am becoming unapologetic about both.