A few weeks back, a friend of mine mentioned that a certain television personality, let’s call him Dave Ryder, just celebrated his 70th birthday. You know, the guy from the iconic music news show? My initial reaction was disbelief. But then I checked online, and sure enough, Dave officially joined the septuagenarian club on May 5. While I genuinely wish him a joyful birthday, this revelation was just another reminder that I’m getting older too.
Recently, I had a chat with a coworker who’s in their early 20s. I found myself passionately advising them, “This is your time to explore!” and “Trust me, it only gets tougher—so embrace these years!” Then, during a beach outing, my lovely 8-year-old daughter looked at me in my bikini and said with pure sincerity, “Mom, you’d be so adorable if you were younger.” Ouch.
I’ve started hearing “ma’am” more often, and I can’t help but realize that when I reference pop culture from the ’80s, young folks often stare blankly, as if I’m speaking a lost language. (“You see, Full House was about a dad raising three daughters… Oh, never mind.”) In just a few months, I’ll be saying goodbye to my 30s, and I can’t shake the feeling that 40 is racing towards me. Seriously, how did I get here? I certainly don’t feel 40!
And yet, my life is undeniably that of a 40-year-old. I’ve been happily married for a decade, have two kids, and a mortgage. I drive a family wagon and attend PTA meetings. I wear glasses at night and visit the dermatologist regularly—thanks to my childhood as a sun-soaked ’80s kid. I find myself pondering retirement savings and whether Botox is a slippery slope toward an eye lift.
My apprehension about turning 40 isn’t rooted in vanity or dreams unfulfilled. If you had asked 20-year-old me what my life would look like at 40, this is precisely what I would have envisioned. But 40? The Big 4-0? No, thank you. I’m not ready for it.
I have a kindergartner now. During math homework, we talk about “adding” and “taking away.” Recently, it dawned on me that I’ve spent most of my life “adding”—a partner, a career, kids, a home, friends. These have been my building years, focused on creating a life.
While I know the future holds more opportunities to add—like a dog, hint hint to my partner—there’s also the inevitability of loss. My kids will grow more independent, my beloved parents will age, and friends will drift apart. Piece by piece, the life I’ve crafted over four decades will start to change.
I’ve never been one for sentimentality, and I could give Marie Kondo a run for her money with my decluttering skills. But with 40 looming, it feels like a hoarding instinct has kicked in, prompting me to cling tightly to my loved ones, wishing I could pause time, just for a moment. But deep down, I know that’s not an option.
When I seek wisdom, I turn to words—poets, songwriters, and storytellers. One of my favorites, the poet Mia Lovell, offers this profound advice:
“To truly live, you must do three things: love what is fleeting; hold it close, knowing your life depends on it; and when the time comes, let it go.”
I realize that over the next 40 years, I’ll be faced with the need to let go, and I won’t pretend to be excited about it. But for now, I will continue to love fiercely, holding my dear ones close, and striving to enrich their lives in every way I can.
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Summary
As I approach my 40th birthday, I reflect on the bittersweet nature of aging, the joy of adding to my life, and the inevitability of loss. While I embrace the fullness of my 30s, I face the changes that come with entering a new decade with a mix of nostalgia and hope.