Today I am 40 years old. 40! FORTY. My least favourite number to spell (petition to bring back the “u”!), but otherwise, I feel pretty good about it.
When I was 28 and dealing with an unfortunate cancer diagnosis, well-meaning people wanted to connect me to other young adults going through the same thing. Someone asked if I’d be interested in speaking to her friend who had been diagnosed in her early 40’s, and I was simply aghast that they thought we were part of the same cohort.
Forty is not young! I shouted at my computer screen, in response to the email from whatever kind soul had dared suggest I’d have anything in common with this practically geriatric cancer patient. This person had kids! A career! They’d practically lived an entire life! A 40-year-old with cancer was a bummer, sure, but not as tragic as a 20-something with cancer. Oh, how I wish I could swap places with that woman, I thought.
Turning 40 somehow became my goal. I prayed to the universe and pleaded to at least make it to 30, which seemed doable. 40 felt like less of a given, so I promised (not sure who—God?) that if I made it to 40, I’d be eternally grateful and see every day thereafter as a bonus.
I vividly recall these nonsensical thoughts bouncing through my anxious brain. It felt good to have some sort of target to aim for.
And I did it. Today, I crossed the finish line. Forty years old. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.
Of course, now that I’m here, I don’t feel nearly as old as I thought 40 seemed when I was 28. My back hurts more, and I have stretch marks and crow’s feet where none previously existed. I’m exhausted, but I have my children to thank for that more than the aging process. I’m most definitely not ready to kick the bucket anytime soon. I quite enjoy being alive, thank you very much.
I think I’m technically entering middle-age now, which is a strange concept, since no one actually knows how long they’ll live and when they’re at the midpoint. But if I’m in it for the long-haul, then I’m somewhere in the middle. And I actually feel okay with that. Beginnings are exciting and filled with promise, but they’re also scary and overwhelming. Endings can be beautiful and fulfilling, but also sad and hard. The middle, though—that’s where the story happens. Middles have unexpected surprises, twists and turns, and personal growth. I can’t be quite sure, but I think the middle might be the best part of it all.
I do feel older lately, in a way I’ve never experienced before. I drop my kids off at camp and make small talk with their counsellors, feeling like we’re more or less on the same wavelength. Then my son mentions his counsellor is 15 years old, and I realize she likely views me just as “someone’s mom.” I read about 20 and 30-somethings publishing their first, second, third books. I look at first-time moms at the park with their babies, and think, wow, we’re at completely different life stages. When did that happen? I graduated high school 22 years ago. But wasn’t it just yesterday? You blink and suddenly so many years have past, and you’re not sure how it happened, even though you were there for all of it.
I know what a privilege it is to add another candle to your birthday cake each year. There’s no guarantee you or I will make it to the next one. But there’s still a sense of melancholy over the unavoidable passage of time. It’s gratitude and grief all mixed up together. Both things can be true, right?
I have so much more to say about aging, particularly as a woman, and as a mom, but I’m going to save all that for future newsletters (which I hope to send out more frequently, if I can muster up the motivation despite the world being on fire).
Besides, I’m too tired to write more right now. I’m 40 years old, after all.
Things I’m enjoying right now 😍
- shares her wisdom on turning 80
- does a deep dive into the star power of Glen Powell
BoyMom by
(essential reading if you’re raising boys!)The Sunday Times article about Ballerina Farm that everyone is talking about
Season 3 of The Bear
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Happy Birthday!