Tara Moss

Photo credit: Newspix

My hair is turning grey and I'm embracing it.I recently parted my hair on a different side, and discovered shining strands of silver, magically new and shimmering from root to end. There were clusters of them secreted beneath my thick dark-blonde locks, and I felt awed and excited to uncover them. Why, I wondered, did it thrill me so much to be turning grey? It happens to everyone eventually. Why did it fill me with happiness to know I was morphing into an older woman? The conclusion was crystal clear—it’s because I’m so damn ready for it.

Much of my teens were spent running. I’d enjoyed an idyllic childhood on Vancouver Island in Canada. My parents were in love, and they loved me and my sister. We played games in the snow and sunshine. Life was simple. And then my mother died of cancer when she was only 43 and the whole world shifted, became dark and uncertain.

After a few months of paralysis I threw myself at the world, aged 16, with a kind of blind enthusiasm and desperation. Life was short. I needed to make something of myself immediately, to show that I was fine, just fine, and I could look after myself. I was stridently independent as a young fashion model—a career I’d been told for years (mostly by strangers) I should pursue. I worked my guts out and retreated to my room alone each night to read.

My 20s were confused, if a bit less kamikaze. I modelled in different cities every few months. I drifted from one bad romantic relationship to another, acutely aware that I wanted to put down roots, but emotionally and geographically unable to. I made poor choices, and some good ones, too. Finally taking a chance on myself was the best decision I made, and I made it when I enrolled in a writing course. By 23 I knew I wanted to be a published writer and everyone else be damned. It didn’t matter what people thought I should be any more. I’d given modelling my best shot and it wasn’t for me. Henceforth, I would dedicate myself to the page.

My 30s started badly—an unpleasant divorce and a stretch of terrifying self-examination. I took 18 months off from serious fiction writing. I just couldn’t find words. At the end of that very bad period of time, I was finally there. I’d stopped running. I’d peeled away all the layers and taken a good, hard look at what was left. After nearly two decades without my mum I could finally just be. I dived back into life a stronger person. I suppose I could have reached that stage earlier, without all the loss and trauma but, frankly, I doubt it.

Every experience adds another piece to the puzzle and I wouldn’t give a single piece back. Now, a mere nine months away from 40, I’ve written nine novels and my career is challenging and fulfilling. I am the mother of a mischievous, giggling girl, the wife of a man I love and admire, and a woman with opportunities and experiences I am deeply grateful for. I welcome the coming years. I truly do believe that I’m at my best age yet.