I Am 59 Years Old Today

March 14. Day #1. It’s my birthday. I’m 59. Wow. I’m a grown-up. It’s strange that I still feel 33. Physically and mentally, I feel healthier than ever. 59 years old…

Am I where I wanna be? Am I doing exactly what I wanna do? No.

What is it that I wanna do? I know damn well. I feel like I’ve known my whole life. Yet I’m not doing it. Why? Why am I eating so much right now and watching the numbers on the scale go up? I've weighed 119 for years, and now I'm at 131. Why am I eating so much? What is the void I am trying to fill? Why aren’t I doing the one thing I know I'm called to do? Write my book.

I’m 59. I’ve been called to write a book for the last 25 years. People have repeatedly told me to write a book. After I had my son, Charlie, I almost died, and the doctor had to remove my uterus. Someone told me to write a book about my experience with placenta accreta, which occurs in about 0.2 percent of all pregnancies. Later, when we were exploring adoption, our doctor reminded me she left my ovaries so we could use my eggs and my husband's sperm—"man juice," as I like to call it—to create embryos and incubate them in someone else's body. The only other person I'd heard of who had done this was Joan Lunden, who had twins. We took the chance and put three fresh embryos into a gestational surrogate and had my daughter, Margot.

I remember Robin Ruzan—Mike Myers' wife at the time—reaching out to me and asking to meet. We met at Starbucks over the hill in West Hollywood. I walked in, saw her beautiful blue eyes at a table, and sat across from them. She told me I was sitting on a gold mine; the way I spoke about surrogacy on my blog and Facebook was unique and powerful. She urged me to write a book and to become the voice and expert on surrogacy. Honestly, I only absorbed half of what she said because I was starstruck—Mike Myers created Coffee Talk based on Robin's mom, Linda! But I did hear her enough to start writing a book, although I never finished it.

Not just Robin Ruzan, but God, too, had been telling me to write a book for years. (God and I are pretty good friends.) The mean girl taking up space in my mind beats me up daily for not writing the damn thing. It’s a burden I carry. I’ve started eight books and finished none. My daughter Margot once told me I was the world's greatest starter but never a closer. I started an LLC called Leigh.La LLC and a nonprofit called I Got You Foundation. Both are ready to go, yet I’m doing nothing with them. My accountant asks every year if I'm ready to shut them down since I'm not using them, and I always say, “No, keep them open. I’ll use them someday.” (If anyone wants to work on launching a nonprofit with me, please reach out.)

Why have I started so many things but done nothing with them? I used to blame ADD. I didn’t even know I had ADD until my 40s when I took my son for testing. Filling out his form, I realized I answered "yes" to every question. The psychiatrist told me to schedule my own appointment. When I went back, she said I was on the highest end of ADD. I was excited—it explained everything. I used to think I was just a dick. I couldn’t remember people's names or complete anything. I'd interrupt people often, worried I'd forget what I needed to say, and if I didn’t say it right then, it would go away, and I would get in trouble for not doing what I said I would. People hated it, especially my sister Katherine, who once told me she didn't want to speak with me anymore because I interrupted her constantly. That meant I didn’t care what she had to say, and I wasn't even listening, so why bother? She said I was selfish and self-centered, and she was done. That hurt me so much, but looking back, she was right. I wasn’t aware of how bad it was; even though I didn’t have a malicious bone in my body, I could now see how shitty that must have felt.

I’m a grown-up, though I don't always feel or act like one. I’m 59 and have five kids—those are facts. 59 with five kids; when in the hell did that happen? And why do I still feel like a child who wants to laugh at inappropriate times, do splits whenever possible, and play silly games like "upside-down eyes"—where one person lies on the ground, another puts their face upside-down over theirs, covers noses and mouths, and stares into each other's upside down eyes pretending they were right side up? At 59, this still excites me.

My children often say, “Mom, can you please be normal?” I’m still unsure exactly what that means or what it looks like. One time at the mall, I was with my three girls when Audrey, the middle one, asked me to be normal after I twirled, did a high kick, followed by a step-ball-chain dance move in a store because “Hot Stuff” was playing over the store speakers and I choreographed a drill team dance to that song in the eighth grade. So naturally, when the song came on, one of the combinations came out of my body. I said, “Be normal; what does that mean?” She said, “Quit dancing. Quit talking to everyone. When we get into this elevator, don't speak to anyone. Just stand there and look straight ahead like everyone else in the elevator.” I said, “OK.” The elevator door opened, and we got in I stood in the back and looked straight ahead like I was told. We were only going down one floor; this shouldn’t be too hard.

There were three women in the elevator with us. I glanced to my right, and I saw a woman with the most beautiful necklace. She caught my eye. I mouthed to her, “I love your necklace.” She closed her eyes, put her hand on her heart, and smiled. We both felt good. I thought I was so tricky mouthing it. When we got off, my youngest daughter, Eve, said, “You can't do it, can you, Mom? You can't just be normal!” I said, “What did I do?” She said, “Audrey asked you not to talk to anyone in the elevator one time, and you couldn't do it. I saw you mouth something to the woman and I saw her smile back at you.” Well, I didn’t say anything,” I replied. “Oh my gosh,” Eve said. “You can't be normal.” And I said, “Well,” a little hurt, “I guess I'm not normal then. And if not talking to other people or complementing them is normal, I don’t want to be normal. Why would I keep a kind thing from another person? By the way, child, anytime you think something nice about a stranger, tell them. Tell everyone when you think something nice about them, especially a stranger. Try not being normal for once. It doesn't suck. It’s actually quite fun.

How did we ever come up with the thought of what’s normal? I hate that. Normal isn’t real. I looked up the definition of normal it reads: conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected. OMG! How on earth did we ever come up with the idea to be normal was a good thing? Who in the hell wants to be typical? Now, I take saying I'm not normal as a badge of honor. Damn, right, I'm not normal! We are exactly who God created us to be. And I sure as hell hope we are not all mirroring each other or doing whatever anyone else thinks we should do. Oh, what a boring world it would be.

What is my intention for this 59th year? What intention will I set and stick with? I want to honor myself. More importantly, I want to honor God. God has repeatedly shown me my gifts and how to use them, yet I chase different paths and knock on doors off His path. Why? Recently, I booked two jobs to focus on. One was hosting live shopping for a Chinese TikTok company staffed by trendy 20-year-olds from China. They chose me as their first influencer they were going to build a home shopping store with. They’d given me sweaters covered in hearts and asked me to shoot 20 videos with scripts that said things I'd never say. I did it. I'd model their clothes in my house for two straight hours. It was easy and I was excited to see where this would go.

Simultaneously, I demoed a wholistic powder at Erewhon in Studio City and Beverly Hills that enhances ones sexual experience. It was a blast, and their sales went up 1300% when I was there. It reminded me how much I love connecting with people and how I could sell the shit out of anything if I were excited about it. Should I create my own product and sell the shit out of it? I had big visions of what I could do for this company. I got super excited and started pitching my ideas to the company. Unfortunately, internal issues caused them to drop me abruptly. Then, the TikTok company told me to finish 20 more videos before payment. I insisted on payment for the first 20 since we had no contract, and they swiftly ended our relationship. Those young, hip Chinese gals sure don't mess around.

I asked God, "What the heck? Two job opportunities gone? I need money!" God replied, “I cleared your slate so you could write your book.” “God I am, freshly 59, wondering how I'll earn money.“ Once again, God whispers, “Write your book.” “Okay, God.” I'm writing right now. I'll write daily about this final year in my 50s, documenting every day as a 59-year-old sliding messily into 60. What can I accomplish before turning 60—my grandma’s age, the age I've always associated with grandmas? I'll find out this year. If I am right, Louise Hay wrote her first book when she was 60. She ended up with an amazing publishing company and helped so many people. God just nudged me again, “Write your book.” Okay, God! I’ll focus on writing my book.” Maybe I will prove Margot wrong and, before I turn 60, become a closer.