Do you remember the excitement of hitting the halfway mark of the year as a kid, when you could finally add that delightful “…and a half” to your age? When was the last time you did that? Turning 40 two years ago was a breeze for me—actually, it was more than that. Like many in midlife, I decided to seize the moment. I took up running, not to impress anyone, but as a personal gift. Without boring you with my pace times, let’s just say I exceeded my own expectations. I also started therapy, diving deep into self-discovery like never before. Oh, and I even got my first tattoo!
I wanted to share my journey with the world, so on my birthday, I jumped on Facebook and posted, “Lordy, Lordy…” and soaked in the flood of well-wishes that followed. I wasn’t shy about my age, despite what society often suggests. I didn’t feel old (whatever that means), and I certainly didn’t look it, either.
Interestingly, as I scrolled through my feed filled with photos of high school and college friends, it struck me that most of us didn’t look old—well, not all of us, but certainly a solid majority. We looked as we should. This realization led me to conclude that my generation is rewriting the narrative around middle age. Forget about the traditional “over-the-hill” clichés; a friend proclaimed, “Forty is the new 30,” and I was ready to embrace that idea wholeheartedly.
However, the following year, a curious trend emerged. Many of my peers began to discreetly erase any mention of their ages from social media. Specific birthdates vanished, and graduation years were hidden from view. #ThrowbackThursday posts shifted from “Can you believe this was 19 years ago?” to vague references like “This happened at some unspecified time in the past.” It felt like we were slipping through an invisible barrier between “youthful” and “disturbingly old.” Why was that happening?
I found myself silently cheering, “We are vibrant, successful, funny, and undeniably attractive!” as I tried to fend off an unsettling sense of dread. Living in a college town didn’t help, either; I was getting older while everyone around me remained perpetually youthful.
So why should we feel embarrassed about our age at 40? When my friends and I turned 41, nobody mentioned the number. Instead, we joked about “aging backwards” or shared memes about how “age is just a state of mind.” Yet the truth is, age is indeed a number, and it symbolizes so much more than mere digits. After all, this heart of mine has been beating for over four decades! In that time, I’ve navigated the challenges of childbirth, survived junior high, endured hurricanes, and made questionable fashion choices, all while managing the chaos of raising two children.
I have friends who have conquered mountains, penned bestsellers, triumphed over adversity, climbed corporate ladders, and started nonprofits. Achieving those milestones takes time—years, even decades. The evidence is right there on their driver’s licenses, although many would rather keep it hidden.
I have to admit, I’ve faltered on this front too. Last year, succumbing to peer pressure, I hid my birthdate on Facebook. But when I deleted “1973,” it felt unsettling. Was I ashamed to be born then? Not at all. Did I wish I could erase a few years? Not really. Would I want to return to my 30s? Absolutely not.
Sure, I’m not thrilled with all aspects of aging—my carefree days of spontaneous dye jobs are fading, and I’m not exactly a fan of the deepening laugh lines. But you know what? I’m grateful for them. Those lines tell the story of laughter, love, and life experiences over the last 42 years.
So here’s to embracing our age, proudly and loudly, complete with those faded Polaroids of our questionable hairstyles as proof.
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Summary
Celebrating aging should be done with pride, especially for those over 40. This article emphasizes the vibrant lives lived, the experiences gained, and the milestones achieved throughout the years. It encourages a shift in how we perceive age, urging everyone to embrace their journey and share their age confidently.