WHEN THE WOBBLE CAME

WHEN THE WOBBLE CAME

Now that I’ve shared some of my backstory, let me bring you to the moment that sparked my most recent awakening. Don’t worry—I’ll take you back to the early days soon enough.

It was a beautiful spring afternoon, and I was sitting on my deck, soaking in the sunshine. As I sipped my drink and enjoyed the breeze, my eyes wandered over to my neighbor’s porch. She’s an elderly woman, probably in her 70s. I watched as she leaned forward in her chair, gripped the armrests, and slowly pulled herself to her feet. Once she stood, she teetered a little, wobbling from side to side before making her way to the back door.

A quiet chuckle slipped out as I watched her, not in judgment, but in that gentle, knowing way we sometimes laugh at life’s little moments.

But then—my moment came.

A short while later, I stood up to head back inside. And to my surprise, I followed her exact pattern: slow rise, grip the chair, steady wobble. I froze mid-step and blurted out loud to nobody in particular, “Damn it, I got the wobble too!”

That was the day reality sucker-punched me in the gut. My body was doing things my mind hadn’t authorized. I was heartbroken. Somewhere along the way, I had crossed over into her territory—into a space I hadn’t mentally prepared for. My spirit still felt vibrant, sexy, and full of fire—like I could still twirl in heels and dance until sunrise. But my body? It had betrayed me.

And I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t want to be old. Point blank. I was used to being independent—doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. Aging, in my mind, meant losing freedom, losing rhythm, losing me.

I thought of my aunt—God rest her soul. My sister and I used to laugh because no matter when you asked her how she was doing, her answer was always, “I’m okay, but my knees been hurting and my arthritis acting up.” It didn’t matter if it was Monday or Christmas Day—those knees were always in protest. We thought it was funny back then. But baby, she’s getting the last laugh now.

Our elders weren’t lying when they said, “Just wait. If you live long enough, you’ll understand.”

This new discovery—this aging thing—it’s a process nobody teaches you. They just toss around phrases like “aging gracefully.”

Gracefully?

You mean hobbling down the street because your hip decided to shoot pain like a sniper? You mean menopause turning your body into a 24/7 furnace? Please tell me what’s graceful about your lady parts drying up like the Sahara Desert, or losing your train of thought mid-sentence like your brain just hit a detour.

So yeah… this whole “graceful aging” concept felt completely foreign to me.

But then—God.

In His infinite wisdom, He began to slow-walk me through it. Gently. Patiently. Teaching me that the wobble wasn’t just about my gait—it was a spiritual invitation. A shift. A renewing of the mind, body, and spirit.

The wobble is not just a sign of decline. If we’re wise enough to hear the call, it’s also the beginning of a transformation.

I’m still learning—little by little, day by day. God is spoon-feeding me wisdom at the pace I can handle, helping me make peace with the change, one step (and wobble) at a time.