Closing off the 4th decade…
As the sun sets on my fourth decade, I find myself standing at the crossroads of middle age. The path behind me is scattered with memories, both sweet and bitter, while the one ahead remains feels very unknown. It’s a peculiar place to be—a time feeling the weight of unmet expectations.
The Illusion of Arrival
In my twenties, I believed that by forty, I would have it all figured out. Maybe I’d have a successful career, perhaps a loving partner, perhaps a couple of kids, and a house with a white picket fence, and definitely a sense of feeling settled in myself. But life, as it often does, had other plans. The career took unexpected turns, relationships bloomed and withered, and I find myself still…floating.
The Ghosts of Dreams Deferred
Middle age is when the ghosts of dreams deferred come knocking. They whisper in the quiet moments—the novel I never wrote, the travels I postponed, risks I never took. They remind me that time is finite, and the story of my life remains incomplete. And there is an ache of unfulfilled potential.
The Weight of Comparison
I too easliy lean into the feeling of inadequacy. Scrolling through curated feeds, sitting at dinners and around meeting tables, I see people celebrating their promotions, exotic vacations, and picture-perfect families. Meanwhile, I wonder if I missed the memo on adulting. Why haven’t I climbed that corporate ladder? Why haven’t I backpacked across Europe? Why haven’t I found my soulmate?
The Battle with Biology
Ah, the physical changes—the gently greying hair, the fine lines etching themselves around my eyes, the metabolism that seems to have gone on vacation. My body, once resilient, now creaks and protests. I stand in front of the mirror, tracing the map of time on my skin, wondering if I’ve aged gracefully or merely surrendered to it.
The Wisdom of Imperfection
Yet, amidst the struggle, there’s a quiet wisdom that emerges. I’ve learned that perfection is an illusion. Life isn’t a checklist; it’s a messy, unpredictable journey. The unfinished canvas or an expectation not met isn’t a failure; it’s an invitation to keep creating. Maybe I haven’t scaled Everest, but I’ve climbed my own peaks—the laughter shared with friends, the tears shed in solitude, the moments when my heart swelled with love.
The Liberation of Letting Go
Maybe middle age grants the gift of letting go. Release the need for external validation, embrace my quirks—the way I snort when I laugh, the silly socks I wear, the half-finished novels stacked on my bedside table. I realize that “making it” isn’t about societal checkboxes; it’s about finding joy in the everyday.
The Unfinished Symphony
So, here I am— on the eve of the next stage. The peaks and troughs of experience, resilience, and vulnerability shape my narrative. I may not have it all figured out, but perhaps that’s the beauty of middle age—the freedom to rewrite the script, to color outside the lines, and to live by my own imperfect rhythm.
And as the sun rises on my fifth decade, lets see what in store for me, let’s see what path I forge next. I wish myself, luck and love and kindness.
On The Eve Of It 