The Fault In Our Stars

Sometimes, our stars fall short

Dear Gabrielle,

I never wanted to be light-skinned more than I do now.

As I haul myself—literally and emotionally—back into the dating world, I can’t help but feel old. Thirty-four.
Last year, I still felt young.
This year, mortality has found me. Harshly. Bluntly. By the end of this year, I’ll be middle-aged. Halfway through life. Almost ancient.

And I’m scared.
Scared of growing old before I’ve truly lived.
Before I’ve loved fully. Before I’ve built what I dreamed of.

By now, I should’ve been a millionaire. A few zeros away from Rihanna.
By now, I should’ve slept with every Jack and Harry worth remembering, created a string of memories for my older self to chuckle about.
By now, I should have moved on. Given myself a second chance. Tried again. Adopted, maybe. Rebuilt, somehow.
By now, I shouldn’t be this demotivated.
I shouldn’t still be waiting for the axe to fall before I even sharpen my sword.

Maybe that’s why this skin thing is getting to me.

But it’s not just about skin tone.
I’m already light-skinned, the brown kind of light—soft enough that my veins tint green beneath the surface, and a simple blood draw leaves a bluish-black trail for days.

But what I crave isn’t shade. It’s sheen. That smooth, unblemished face that whispers of youth.
The kind of face that shouts “fresh” in a world that treats age like a warning sign.

It’s not color—it’s texture. The soft, taut skin of youth that promises possibility.
Maybe if my face could mimic that perfection, my age wouldn’t feel so visible.
Maybe I’d be allowed to feel young enough to still try.
To live before I become an afterthought.

Because as a woman in her mid-thirties, this—this—is where aging cuts deepest.
Not just in the skin, but in the self.
In how the world begins to look through you, drag you for your age, hold a microscope to your achievements, and say you are “out of time.”
In how your worth becomes a tally: of children, partners, beauty, power.

And sometimes I want to believe that if I could just glow brighter—radiate youth a little longer—maybe the world would give me more time.
More grace.

I know none of this does me any good.
But my brain doesn’t care.
I know I shouldn’t think like this. But saying it is easier than believing it.

Sometimes, the status quo is easier than change.
Change is expensive.
And some days, the price feels too steep, and the hollowness too deep.

Some days, I want to stay hidden until my time is up.
I want to be alone until a man falls from heaven into my bed—
A man who sees me. Accepts me. Understands all of it.
A man who isn’t intimidated by the weight I carry.

Some days, I don’t have the strength to keep searching.

So I do what I can.
I go home.
Try to eat something healthy—because I can’t afford to fail at everything.
I read a good book.
Or I watch something to escape.
And then I sleep.

Because tomorrow is another day.
Another chance to decommission myself.
To maybe, just maybe, want more again.

And so, I’ll try again tomorrow.