• My kids are college-age, in the prime of their lives, and thriving in every way.
• Meanwhile, I'm struggling with the woes of midlife, and I feel envious of their youth.
• I am persistently trying to accept this and find the silver lining.

I recently found a gray hair in my eyebrow, and my heart skipped a beat.

I suppose it might be comical to those who have accepted aging and the speed at which life passes us by, but that's not me — not yet, anyway. No one ever told me that eyebrows turn gray. I suppose no one really had to. I mean, I'm sure I've seen gray eyebrows before, but I never imagined I would fall victim to this atrocity — especially not so soon.

This unexpected gray hair — just like every wrinkle, hot flash, and new joint pain — was a reminder that there was still so much I wanted to do and even more that I wish I had done already.

And just as I angrily plucked that sucker right out of its place, my daughter walked in. "Are you almost done? I need to curl my hair."

My beautiful, young daughter, Nora, is about to decide where she will attend college next fall. She is excited about prom, graduation, and her upcoming senior night for hockey. Her hair is thick and gray-less. The world is her oyster — and she doesn't even know it.

Molly is my oldest daughter. She is about to study abroad in Spain. She is dedicated to fitness, has correctly identified her deepest passions, and is pursuing them with ambition and confidence. She is one of the bravest people I know. I look at her and see nothing but a vibrant, fulfilling future. The world is her oyster, too, and she just may know it.

To be honest, I'm jealous of my daughters. They have everything ahead of them, and it feels like my life is behind me.

I often find myself envious of my daughters' youthfulness

I am so incredibly proud of my girls. They have grown into such dynamic, wonderful young women, and the world is a better place because they are in it.

If I am being honest, though, I can't help but feel a pang of envy when I observe them living their best lives. They have youth and time and their whole lives ahead of them. Sometimes, I want to warn them that before they know it, they will wake up with gray eyebrows and an ex-husband.

Other times, I find myself selfishly living vicariously through them as if their experiences are indeed my do-over at life. I often yell at them, "Show me pictures from that party last night," "Let's find a fun place for you and your friends to go dancing this weekend," or "You should major in this and not that."

I'm worried I wasted my youth

I often say I have no regrets in life, but this gray hair reminded me that I do. At times, I am desperate for a rewind button.

I wish I could go back to my teenage years and choose a different college, complete a different major, and take a new journey altogether. I dream of going back to the days when I consistently weighed 138 pounds so that I could appreciate that as skinny and fit rather than berating my young self for being "fat."

I also want to redo my love life. I want to take the wisdom I have gathered from every failed relationship. I want to say "no" to those who caused me pain and "yes" to those who had the potential to love me the right way.

I want to prioritize financial wealth because, as an 18-year-old, I naively thought my husband would take care of "all that stuff." As a result of that false belief, I now live paycheck to paycheck.

I'm finding ways to accept and appreciate my aging

Don't get me wrong, I am often happy. But at times, life is hard. What's even harder is looking into the mirror and realizing that I have lived more years than I have left.

I often wonder: Are my best years behind me? Did I take them for granted? If a genie granted me a wish, would I truly go back in time, and if so, would I cherish the gift of time more?

Of course, there is part of me (maybe a very big part) that would love to be 16 again — but I want to be 16 with the wisdom of a 46-year-old. I suppose that proves aging isn't all bad, thanks to everything I have learned.

I do know one thing, though: Today, I am the youngest I will ever be. I suppose there is a 75-year-old version of me in the future, with a full set of gray eyebrows, wishing she could be 46 again. Or perhaps my 75-year-old self will fondly remember 16 and 46 while feeling joyful to be 75, living in the present, and appreciative of all that is possible.

I think my 46-year-old self would be wise to listen to her.

• I was an absent, alcoholic mother for years before going to rehab for six months.
• After getting sober, I had to learn to be a parent to my kids.
• My kids have learned to forgive me, but I am still learning to forgive myself.

Over 11 years ago, I went to rehab. It wasn't the first time, but it was the last.

I have now been sober for 11 years. That is a really long time, and no one, including me, ever thought I would get here. I was a low-bottom, stereotypical drunk mom. I lied, cheated, and stole. I made promises to my three children's innocent faces and broke them because alcohol was more important to me; it was most important to me.

Before I got sober, there were months when I only saw my kids for a few hours a week. I ruined vacations, parent-teacher conferences, and sporting events. I gave them chaos when they deserved and needed peace. I was so numb from my addiction that I didn't see the harm I was causing. The damage I caused was great — and it was not reversible.

This is along the lines of what they told me when I went to rehab: "Don't rush the healing with your children. The only thing you can do is make a living amends — prove to them that you are sober today and then do it again tomorrow. Eventually, your relationships will heal with enough tomorrows, and your kids will forgive you."

I wondered how my kids, especially my oldest daughter, could forgive me. I had been such a bad mom. But with time, we found our way.

I focused on being the fun mom at first

After rehab, I wanted to be the best mother I could be, and I wanted to believe that one day, my kids would forgive me — and maybe I would forgive myself, too.

I listened to other alcoholic moms at AA meetings share stories of healing and forgiveness, and it planted enough hope in me to keep me sober for one moment. One day. One week. Eventually, one full year. My kids started to see that I was changing.

We did a lot of fun things together, like trampoline parks, bowling, and escape rooms. Our time together increased from a few hours on Wednesday afternoons to an overnight and then every other weekend. Soon enough, we were on a 50-50 custody schedule.

Their fear of me drinking slowly but surely slipped away, and I finally felt like a real mom.

I had to find the courage to apologize to my children

I was repairing the damage, but saying "I am sorry" was still difficult. Believing that I deserved forgiveness seemed out of reach.

I remember the first time I said the words to my oldest daughter. It was so hard to look at her sweet face and admit that I had been the worst possible mother to this perfect little girl. I wanted to do what I had always done: run away before saying, "I am sorry," drink away my guilt, or disappear altogether because the accountability, guilt, and shame were too much.

But as my daughter shared one of her significant and traumatic memories with me — one where I had messed up and skipped her dance recital due to drinking — I knew I had to do the right thing for her, no matter how uncomfortable it was for me.

"I am sorry," I said. "I know how hard that must have been for you, and I want you to know I am not that person today. I am sober today, and I plan to do everything I can never to be that person again."

Facing my shame, taking full accountability, and facing my daughter was a huge step toward healing for both of us. I released a ton of guilt and shame with that apology. She told me it was OK, but there were more steps along the way — conversations about what it used to be like, sometimes lighthearted, other times not so much. We had to often discuss AA, my new way of life, and what I'm doing to stay sober on any given day.

I'm properly rebuilding my relationship with my kids

My three kids and I have come a long way and none of us is the person we used to be.

But deep down, my guilt and shame still exist, as does an immense amount of fear. The fear of losing my kids again. Of making a bad decision and pushing them away. Of saying or doing the wrong thing so that, suddenly, they remember I'm a bad mom and push me out of their life. I'm still learning to forgive myself for everything, too.

But on February 3^rd, 2025, the following text popped up on my phone:

"Congrats on 11 years sober! I am so proud of you and love you so much. You have become the mom I always wanted."

I wrote back: "I love you too, Molly. I am just so glad you waited for me, believed in me, and gave me so many chances. I have become the mother you always deserved."

• My adult daughter told me she didn't want to hear my advice anymore, setting a boundary.
• I was impressed with her ability to set boundaries, and she has always been emotionally mature.
• I'm jealous of her ability to do that, but she is an inspiration to me.

"Mom, I'm going to give you an update on my life, but I don't want your advice because I won't take it anyway."

My daughter effortlessly stated her well-articulated boundaries to me as she hopped in the car. I kind of laughed as I eagerly awaited the juicy details of her life as a confident, 21-year-old college student-athlete.

Molly told me all about her friends, the hockey team, and her classes. She disclosed her desire to study abroad and her newfound love of Irish music, and of course, she dished any boy drama (or lack thereof) as always. I listened. We laughed.

At the end of our conversation, her brave boundary-setting request was a success. She made something so hard, like setting a boundary, look and feel so damn easy. That's when I realized I was envious of her.

My daughter often stepped up into the adult role

I often joke that my oldest daughter, Molly, was born an adult. From the moment she was born, she has been teaching me how to be a better person. For most of the years that she's been alive, she has been taking care of me.

At first, I was an active alcoholic who could hardly take care of herself — let alone her children. When I finally did get sober and didn't really know how to live without alcohol, Molly taught me.

She doesn't know it and maybe she wasn't trying to, but she made the things that felt so hard to me look so easy.

When her parents split and life changed from one house to two, she became a second parent to her siblings in both homes; she simply stepped up. Too much has fallen on her shoulders, yet she never wavers.

She is calm in the chaos — always. She is loving and patient — always. She is a leader — our leader — and we lean on her (even though we shouldn't). Molly has always made everything look easy despite the fact that nothing in her life has ever truly been that. For as long as I can remember, I have looked up to her.

Now she's taking steps I am too afraid to take

"I don't want your advice." She said it with a smile, a pep, and well-deserved pride. She didn't say it rudely. I didn't feel rejected or less than, but I did feel jealous.

It wasn't the first time I wished I could be more like Molly, but this time, it was so much more poignant. I wondered: How is it that my daughter has mastered the challenge of setting boundaries and I haven't? How had Molly learned this valuable lesson at such a young age? And how did she execute it so beautifully?

I have been struggling with this my entire life — so much so that I typically sacrifice my own wants and needs to avoid boundaries altogether, and that leads to resentment and anger, and whatever is the opposite of peace.

The jealousy factor pops up a lot these days. Both of my young adult daughters have their lives ahead of them, and I'm at the point in life where I'm starting to look back. When I do, I realize that I have spent so much time being my own worst enemy because I am not comfortable doing what Molly did. I people-please first, avoid discomfort, and fear rejection.

I feel jealous of my daughter, and I don't think that is a bad thing

Jealousy often has a negative connotation, but I know that the word also has roots in the word zēlos, which means zeal. It is associated with words such as emulation, devotion, or ardor. This is what I often feel for Molly — love, devotion, and a desire to emulate her.

She shows me who I want to be — maybe who I wish I had become sooner.

When your kids are little, people always warn you about how quickly they grow up, but no one ever mentions how beautiful it is when that does happen.

When our kids are young, we can be struck by how they want to be just like us, but we don't usually talk about how we might want to be more like them. We don't talk about jealousy, but maybe we should. Maybe parenting adults evokes jealousy — jealousy in the more ancient sense of the term. And maybe this is the gift and beauty of parenting adult children: They show us who we want to be.