There's something about eighteen.

Today is my eighteenth wedding anniversary.

And I keep coming back to the number.

Because eighteen is something, right? Eighteen is when you graduate. When you vote for the first time. When the world looks at you and says — okay, you’re your own now. You can go.

And you have absolutely no idea what you’re walking into.

I don’t know about you, but I thought I knew everything at eighteen. I was so sure. 🤣 Hadn’t lived enough to know what I didn’t know yet. Hadn’t been wrong enough times to have any real humility about it.

Eighteen is not the beginning and it’s not even close to the middle. It’s just the moment the world officially calls you an adult — whether you’re ready or not.

Crazy, right?

I’ve been thinking about that all morning. Not just in my marriage but in everything. What it means to have eighteen years of anything behind you. What that kind of time actually builds in you.

This week I’ve been moving through some of my projects one step at a time. Not adding more. Just taking one meaningful step, looking back honestly, and asking — is this right? Is this working?

And in one of those pauses, I caught something.

I had the cart before the horse. Nothing broken. Just backwards. And once I saw it, it was obvious. To be honest, I was annoyed. I know fixing this will take me a few days.

But, I don’t think I would have caught it if I’d kept the pace I was keeping. And for that, I am grateful.

That’s what eighteen years teaches you that eighteen years old never could.

Not certainty. Not having it all figured out. Just enough time behind you to recognize when something is off and enough grace with yourself to fix it without making it mean more than it does.

At eighteen years old I was sure about everything and right about very little.

Eighteen years of anything — a marriage, a business, a version of yourself you’ve been quietly building — that’s different. You’ve been wrong enough times to stop being surprised by it. You’ve made enough mistakes that catching one early just feels like information now. Not a crisis. Not a failure.

Just something to fix.

Maybe that’s what time actually builds in you. Not the loud confidence of someone who thinks they’ve arrived. Something quieter. Something that holds.

ONE GROUNDED MOVE

Look back at something you’ve been building.

Not to audit it. Just to ask: “What do you know now that you didn’t know at the start? What has the time taught you that you haven’t stopped to acknowledge yet?”

Eighteen years.

I caught the cart before the horse this week, and I will fix it.

That feels like something worth celebrating today.

Eighteen years married to my best friend. That too.

Stay anchored,

LCJ

P.S. If you have a working woman in your life who'd recognize herself in this, forward it to her. The Sunday Anchor is for her too.

Disclosure: This newsletter contains affiliate links and brand partnerships. If you purchase through my links, I may earn a commission — at no additional cost to you. I only share things I actually use and believe in.