On my recent birthday, I blew out 46 candles on my cake. Typically, I would have made a light-hearted joke about needing the fire department for the flames, but this year, the number 46 feels more significant than I anticipated.
While 46 isn’t typically viewed as a milestone birthday—there are no “Over the Hill” decorations for this age, and no one has asked if it feels different—I’ve found myself grappling with the emotional weight it carries. Maybe it’s the realization that I can no longer call myself in my “early 40s.” I’m firmly in the “mid” phase, and creeping toward the “late” part of this decade with only four years until I reach the big 50.
When I gaze into the mirror, I don’t see an elderly person looking back at me. Sure, there are some fine lines around my eyes (which I prefer to call marks of character), and while I’ve always maintained an active lifestyle, there are definitely areas of my body that have changed. It’s somewhat alarming how many yoga poses now reveal more than they used to; I can’t ignore the new curves I’ve developed.
My joints and cartilage are aging too. I find myself visiting my chiropractor so frequently that I’m convinced he’s grateful for my patronage. My back, hips, and knees are not what they used to be; the signs are unmistakable.
However, it’s not the physical changes that trouble me the most. Instead, I’m increasingly aware of my own mortality. To be frank, I’m frightened by the thought of dying. This fear seeps into my daily thoughts, turning minor ailments into catastrophic concerns. That occasional cough? Surely, it’s a sign of lung cancer from secondhand smoke inhalation over the years. That dull pain in my head? Definitely a brain tumor, not just a migraine I’ve had for years.
I know this fear is irrational. Statistically, I have a good chance of aging gracefully. I eat well, exercise regularly, and take dietary supplements. I stay proactive about my health, visiting my dermatologist for skin checks and monitoring my cholesterol. My parents are both in good health, which should provide reassurance. Yet, the absence of concrete threats doesn’t lessen the anxiety; it feels like a heavy cloak I can’t shake off.
Someone once told me that fear and gratitude cannot coexist. However, I find the opposite to be true. My deep appreciation for my life, my family, and the moments we share amplifies my fear of losing it all. I cherish the wonderful home my partner and I have built with our three children, and the thought of missing their milestones fills me with dread. My college-age son might marry, my daughter may excel in dance, and my youngest will experience many firsts. The idea that I could miss any of these significant moments is paralyzing.
I’m not sure why turning 46 has heightened these feelings. Perhaps it’s a midlife crisis, or maybe it’s a sobering acknowledgment of how many years I have left to raise my last child. It could also be the reality of illness affecting people around me, or the fact that many of my close friends are younger and healthier.
As I contemplate my age, it’s clear that 46 has unveiled uncertainties and insights. It’s a reminder that should health issues arise, they won’t be unexpected. I’m increasingly aware of reading about acquaintances’ untimely deaths on social media, and realizing that many of my fears are beyond my control.
Ultimately, 46 has arrived. With any luck, it will just be a brief pause in the story of a life well-lived. As I extinguished the candles on my cake, I focused all my intentions on a wish for more candles in the future.
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In summary, turning 46 has been an unexpected journey, filled with reflections on health, mortality, and gratitude for life’s blessings.