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Thirty-two. In terms of years lived, it's not a remarkable number. I'm not naive, nor am I particularly wise. It's an in-between age, one I thought I could ride on the contented wave I had been surfing for a couple of years.

Yet something unexpected happened at this age. I started to become uncomfortable with the reality of growing older.

It began in the spring after my grandmother died, followed quickly by her sister and niece. Within four months, an entire branch of my family tree had been reduced to sawdust. While I was still trying to sort through my grief, my father-in-law landed in the intensive care unit following major surgery. All this made me see that death won't be passing me by. It's only a matter of time before it comes to whisk me away.

I began to wonder if I should have accomplished more professionally by this point in my life. I earned a university degree and am enjoying a career as a musician and educator. I love what I do and the people I get to work with, but part of me was convinced I should be trying to make more of an impact on the world than just teaching flute lessons and playing at weddings.

I'm ashamed to admit that the physical aspect of aging troubled me most. My face looks different than it did a few years ago. Lines have appeared on my forehead from years of worried scrunching. My skin is constantly dry. And I have a new crease that appears in my left cheek when I smile.

When I first discovered this line, I thought perhaps I had slept on my face in an odd way. Or maybe I was retaining water in strange places. I looked in the mirror on and off for days, alternating between smiling and frowning. I concluded this was a new wrinkle, one more indication I'm headed toward middle age.

But in the midst of my experimental grinning and shallow concerns, I realized it wasn't that long ago that I was unable to smile as I do now. I wasn't really 32. My real age was 8.

In the spring of 2000 I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Depression was nothing new to me: I had lived with mild to severe symptoms for years. I thought it was normal to be miserable and anxious more often than not.

During this particularly bad episode, I was brave enough to ask for help. In time, I came to experience life free from gut-wrenching sadness, rage and self pity. My birth certificate at the time said I was 24. But this diagnosis offered me a chance to be reborn. As my doctor was reassuring me I could escape the hell I had been living in for more than two decades, my age clock rewound to zero.

I didn't notice this rebirth until a few months after I started taking antidepressant medication. I was working for the summer at a farm near my parents' house. One afternoon, I found myself alone in the middle of a field of young tobacco plants, taking a brief rest. Standing at the top of a gentle slope, I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the sun. I breathed in deeply and sighed it out. I was whole, relaxed and at peace.

All this felt good, but strangely unfamiliar. I felt genuinely happy for the first time in my life. As I stood in the middle of virtually nothing, covered in dirt and sweat, I experienced my first moment of everyday joy.

Many more of these moments followed, small triumphs that formed the foundation of my new life. I celebrated these markers just as parents would celebrate their child's first steps or words.

I could finally answer the question, "How are you?" truthfully. I could carry on a casual conversation without feeling self-conscious. I could ride public transit without having a panic attack. I stopped verbally abusing myself. I started to believe I was beautiful. I learned to forgive and love myself.

And I started to smile. Really smile.

I used to smile with just my mouth. It felt like a lie most of the time. I had to do it because no one wanted to be around the girl who was always frowning.

But now I smile from the inside out. It starts somewhere deep in my gut and creeps up through my torso and throat until it finds my lips. When it happens, I radiate the everyday joy I've been feeling since that moment in the field. I'm still amazed at how easy it is and how often I do it.

I suspect the depth of the crease in my left cheek has been enhanced by the amount of smiling I've engaged in over the past eight years.

My smile line may continue to bother me superficially on those days when I'm coming to terms with the steady march of aging. But that little crease also serves as a reminder of how lucky I am to be healthy, alive and 32 going on 8.

Jennifer Baetz Chester lives in London, Ont.

Illustration by Tiffy Thompson.