When age isn't just a number. It's a panic button.

It's time to stop measuring success by its proximity to youth.

My brain has been playing a naughty trick. It has me fully convinced that I’m 37 years old. I’m not. I’m 36 years old. Well, 36-and-a-half years old if we want to get technical. I’ve been trying to track the genesis of this cruel prank. The best I can figure is that 37 has long been my scary age. It’s the year that younger me thought, “that’s when you have to decide whether or not to have kids.” Even though I’ve already procreated, it seems my brain has latched onto this age as the necessary time to figure out all parts of my life. It’s decided to fast-forward the next six months of blissful 36 and is screaming, “You’re 37. Time to panic!”

It’s not the first time an age has freaked me out. Turning 29 was rough because it became clear I wasn’t going to make it on a 30 under 30 list. What did that mean for all I’d accomplished thus far? I’d published two personal finance books at that point, was regularly featured in the media, and getting paid well to do speaking engagements. If I wasn’t lauded as some sort of wunderkind by outlets with influence, then was I even actually successful?

(You should be sensing a trend. My aging angst is often tied to achievement and not to the horror show that is growing older as a woman in our society.)

Then came the career fall.