Embracing Time: Gratitude for the Stories My Hands Tell

Yesterday, I got home after a long day at work, juggling my work bag, lunch bag, purse, sunglasses, keys, coffee mug, and water bottle as I made my way inside. In the process of shutting the car door, I broke a nail. Then, as I bent down to pick up the water bottle that had slipped from my grip, I jammed my fingers into the concrete garage floor. Bam – two more nails gone.

I had planned on a manicure this weekend so I really shouldn’t have cared but for some reason, that tiny moment was the thing that pushed me over the edge. My poor dogs – a rambunctious puppy and a semi-wise, wholly-judgmental six-year-old – looked at me as if they were considering their options for a calmer living situation. So, I did what any rational woman on the brink would do. I took the clippers and cut them all off. The nails, not the dogs.

And then I looked at my hands. Really looked at them.

Who did these hands belong to? The hands staring back at me looked different than the ones I was used to seeing – different from the ones I’d always taken a little pride in. The ones that had once been graceful, polished and even occasionally complimented. Now, they were unadorned, the texture more noticeable, the lines a little deeper. I reached for some nail polish, thinking that maybe a fresh coat would bring them back to how I remembered. But as soon as I started painting, I realized it only made me see them more clearly.

So, I took a photo. And the moment I looked at it, I knew.

They’re my mom’s hands.

I’ve always thought my mom had the most beautiful hands. I don’t recall her ever having long nails or getting gels or acrylics. But I remember the way they moved – how they turned the pages of a book, clicked out words on a typewriter, or rubbed my back when I was sick. I remember how her hands held mine – strong, capable, reassuring…filled with love.

And now, I have them.

In the past, I might have seen them as a sign of time passing too quickly. But today, I see them as something else entirely. A reflection of her. A reminder of all the love, effort, and care these hands have given and continue to give.

We spend so much time critiquing our bodies, noticing what changes, what shifts, what fades. But what if, instead, we appreciated them for what they tell us about where we’ve been? What if we looked at the fine lines, the silver strands, the hands that remember the women before us, and saw not loss, but legacy.

For the record, mom is just fine and her hands are just as beautiful as ever so that last paragraph is not about loss. And especially not losing her. But, I bet she thought her mom’s hands were beautiful too and I wouldn’t be surprised if she occasionally saw a little bit of her momma in her own hands.

Point is, I’ll keep my hands just as they are. I’ll have my nails done when I feel like it, not to cover them up, but to enjoy them. I’ll stretch them out in front of me and smile at the way they remind me of mom.

Because if aging means growing into the hands of a woman who has always cared for me, supported me, and shown me what strength and love look like, then I’ll embrace it. Every mark, every memory, every sign of a life well lived.