Do you remember the excitement of hitting that milestone age where you could finally declare yourself “…and a half”? It feels like ages since many of us last experienced that joy. I entered my 40s two years ago, and rather than feeling apprehensive, I embraced it wholeheartedly. Like many others navigating midlife, I decided to seize the moment. I took up running as a personal challenge and exceeded my expectations. I started therapy, delving deeper into self-discovery than I ever had before, and I even got my first tattoo.
I made my milestone public as well. “Lordy, Lordy…” I announced on my birthday, in true social media fashion, and reveled in the flood of well-wishes that followed. Contrary to what society often suggests, I didn’t feel old—not that I truly know what “old” feels like. As I scrolled through social media, I noticed a surprising trend: most of my peers looked vibrant and youthful, defying the stereotype of aging. “Forty is the new 30,” one friend said, and I was inclined to agree.
However, as the year progressed, I observed something peculiar. Many friends began to obscure their ages on social media. They omitted birthdates and graduation years, and their nostalgic #ThrowbackThursday posts shifted from “Can you believe this was 19 years ago?” to vague references about the past. It felt like we were traversing a strange divide between being “young enough” and “too old,” and I couldn’t quite grasp why.
“Why should we feel shy about our age?” I questioned silently. When my friends and I turned 41, the number went unmentioned, with jokes about “aging backward” filling the void. Yet, age is indeed a number, and it should be celebrated, not hidden. Each year represents a tapestry of experiences: I’ve faced childbirth, survived hurricanes and bad fashion choices, navigated the ups and downs of life, and cherished countless memories.
I have friends who have achieved incredible feats—climbed mountains, authored books, and founded nonprofits. Their accomplishments demand time, energy, and heart, all of which accumulate with age. The proof is etched on their driver’s licenses, though many would hesitate to share.
I admit, I’ve faltered too. Last year, succumbing to peer pressure, I hid my birthdate on Facebook, afraid of being the lone “41-year-old” in the digital space. But erasing “1982” felt unsettling. Was I ashamed of my birth year? Absolutely not. Would I trade my 40s for my 30s? Never.
Aging does have its downsides, like the increasing need for hair dye and the emergence of laugh lines, but those lines are hard-earned. They represent a life filled with joy, challenges, and growth over the past 42 years—and yes, I’m counting the half.
So let’s celebrate our ages, proudly showcasing those faded Polaroids and embracing the journey. Let’s redefine what it means to be over 40, casting aside shame for a loud and proud declaration of our age.
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