Today marks my 46th birthday, a milestone adorned with the glow of 46 flickering candles on my cake. Normally, I’d sprinkle in a lighthearted quip—perhaps something like, “The flames were so high we had to call the fire department!”—but the reality is that turning 46 is weighing on me more than I anticipated.
I recognize that this number doesn’t herald a significant milestone. There are no “Over the Hill at 46” decorations to be found, and not a single person has asked me if it feels different. So why, over the past few weeks, have I felt a sense of dread about this number?
Perhaps it’s because, with this birthday, I can no longer claim to be in my “early 40s.” I’m now firmly in the “mid-40s” category, inching toward what some might call the “late” part of this decade. Just four short years separate me from the big five-oh.
When I glance in the mirror, I don’t see an elderly woman staring back at me. Sure, there are fine lines around my eyes (call them crow’s feet if you must; they don’t bother me much). I’ve kept active, so my body remains relatively toned. However, I can’t ignore the fact that areas of my body now jiggle more than they used to. It’s surprising how many yoga poses compel me to confront my newly formed cellulite.
My joints and cartilage are aging too. Some months, I see my chiropractor so often that I’m pretty sure he should thank me for his new sports car. My back, hips, and knees are all beginning to feel the toll of time.
Yet, it’s not the physical changes of 46 that trouble me. Rather, I am increasingly aware of my own mortality.
Let’s be honest: I’m scared of dying. This fear seeps into my thoughts, transforming trivial concerns into life-threatening ones. A simple cough? It must be lung cancer from secondhand smoke accumulated over the past 552 months. A throb in my temple? Definitely a brain tumor. And those creaky joints? They might be early indicators of something much worse.
Sigh. I know this fear is irrational. Statistically, I should glide into my later years with ease. I maintain a healthy diet, exercise regularly, and have incorporated beneficial supplements like fish oil and turmeric into my routine. I see my dermatologist biannually for skin checks and have my cholesterol tested every year. If I look at my family history, my dad is in great health at 82, while my mom, at 76, seems decades younger. To my knowledge, there are no serious health issues lurking in our family tree.
Yet, the absence of concrete evidence doesn’t lessen the suffocating worry.
Someone once told me that fear and gratitude cannot coexist; if I’m consumed by anxiety, I can’t appreciate life. But I see it differently. For me, it’s my deep gratitude for this life—the wonderful home my partner and I have built with our three children and the love that envelops us—that amplifies my fear of losing it. Sure, we face challenges, and there are days I’d like to throttle everyone in my household. But I recognize how fortunate I am.
In the next decade, my college-age son might get married, my high school junior could receive a scholarship, and my youngest daughter, who hasn’t even started kindergarten, will surely participate in countless activities. She will learn to read, experiment with makeup, and experience her first crush. I fear missing any of these critical moments.
I’m unsure what it is about this seemingly ordinary 46th birthday that’s bringing these feelings to the forefront. Perhaps it’s the unsettling realization that I have many years left to raise my youngest child. Perhaps it’s witnessing peers, some younger than me, grapple with serious health issues. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have a circle of dear friends, all of whom have yet to see 40, and none of whom face the same physical changes I do.
Moreover, I yearn for the day when I can embrace my future grandchildren. But first, I must guide my own children through their formative years.
As I reflect on what it means to be 46, the truth is, I don’t feel that old. However, crossing this threshold has revealed uncertainties and insights.
Forty-six signifies the reality that if things start to decline, it might not be surprising. It brings an awareness that I should brace myself for potentially troubling news from the doctor. It highlights the unsettling trend of reading about acquaintances passing away far too soon. Most importantly, it represents the realization that many of my fears are entirely outside my control.
Whether I like it or not, 46 has arrived. I hope this number will prove to be just a brief pause along the journey of a well-lived life—an opportunity for reflection, adjustment, and gratitude.
So as I blew out those 46 candles on my birthday cake tonight (in a single breath, no less! Take that, lung cancer!), I focused all my positive energy into the tradition of making a wish. With all the hope and courage I could muster, I wished simply for more birthdays to come.
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In summary, turning 46 has brought both reflection and anxiety to the surface, compelling me to confront my fears of mortality while also appreciating the life I have built with my family.
Keyphrase: Navigating turning 46
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