As I approach 40, I can sense the inevitability of it. My hair has begun to show more grey, and those rebellious strands seem to have a mind of their own. My laugh lines are permanent, and I’ve even noticed the onset of a waddle that might make anyone reminiscent of characters from nostalgic shows. Yes, I am clearly getting older.
However, I adamantly refuse to label myself as middle-aged. The definition of middle age is subjective and varies from person to person. For some, it hits in their 20s like it did for my mother, while for others, like my husband’s grandmother, it might not come until their 50s. Middle age can be defined numerically, but it often symbolizes a period of crisis and self-doubt—concepts that I will not subscribe to. In fact, I feel that it is in recent years that I have truly begun to embrace life.
Most people have vague recollections of their early childhood. I remember pouring sand into a tree trunk because my friend claimed it would help it grow (spoiler alert: it didn’t). I recall the shock of discovering what happened when I stuck my fingers down my throat (you can guess). I even ran away from home once, only to be lured back by the promise of a peanut butter cup (it worked!).
Having moved past the awkwardness of my tweens, I sometimes wish I could relive those early teen years—not because they were particularly fun, but because if I knew then what I know now, I would have approached them very differently. I would excel in English class and stand up for those who were mistreated without the fear of losing popularity. I would seek my passions boldly, rather than worry about others’ opinions. And yes, I would have traded in my high-topped sneakers for something more age-appropriate and would have discovered deodorant much sooner!
My 20s were filled with lessons. College, law school, and entering the workforce forced me to grow in many ways. I learned how to navigate new cities, manage finances, and recognize when it was time to end a relationship that wasn’t beneficial for either party. Most importantly, I discovered who I was.
Then came my early 30s, which revolved around pregnancy, breastfeeding, and trying to figure out how to raise small children. Those years were marked by sleepless nights and the constant second-guessing of my decisions as a parent.
Now, as I comfortably settle into my late 30s, I find myself gaining confidence. I’ve chosen my friends and my partner wisely, and I excel in my career. I’m raising three wonderful kids and carving out time for activities that bring me joy—like running, knitting, and writing.
My body reflects the journey I’ve been on. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be due to long hours spent studying and working. My face shows the joy of laughter shared with loved ones. My stomach may not be flat, and my breasts certainly show the effects of motherhood, but I wear my battle scars proudly. I have a persistent heel issue from countless miles logged, yet I see these as badges of honor.
I’m aware that my journey of learning is far from over. The prospect of navigating my children’s teenage years is daunting, and I expect to accumulate more scars—both visible and invisible—as I continue to grow.
If I’m fortunate, I still have time before I hit what society defines as middle age. There’s so much I want to do and explore, so I embrace these scars as they are far better than the alternative. Sure, I occasionally glance in the mirror and wish for the face of my younger self. I might curse the rebellious grey hairs or envision a tighter neck, but I take pride in where I stand now, just shy of 40, ready to truly live.
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Summary
As I near 40, I reflect on my journey through life, dismissing the notion of middle age as a mere construct. Instead, I embrace the confidence and lessons I’ve gained over the years, celebrating my experiences and welcoming the future with open arms.