George Bernard Shaw famously remarked, “Youth is wasted on the young.” While I wouldn’t entirely agree, I certainly have fond memories from my late teens and twenties, though they were often accompanied by their fair share of tears. According to Hollywood, I may have surpassed my last “f***able” day, but let’s be honest—those escapades are overrated.
What I cherish most about my 40s is the freedom I’ve found in shedding my need for external validation. Do I sometimes wonder if an outfit suits me? Absolutely. But my concern stems from recognizing the link between my self-presentation and the way I feel and am treated, rather than a desire to look appealing to others.
Next month, I’ll be celebrating my 42nd birthday. I’m still the same person I was at 22 and 32; the significant changes are in my perspective and how my body reacts to the world around me. The myths surrounding death and irrelevance in our 40s are vastly overstated.
I resist the notion of looking good for my age; instead, I thrive on just looking good for me. If that sounds like a consolation from someone past her prime, perhaps that’s more about the observer’s mindset than my own. A while back, I watched a talk with Laura Bennett, who was asked if she felt marginalized at her age. With a tilt of her head and a confident smile, she simply replied, “By whom? Who’s marginalizing me?” This wasn’t about celebrity; it was about taking charge of one’s own narrative. She exuded confidence.
In my 40s, I’ve finally acquired the facial contours I always desired. The chubby cheeks I once disliked have transformed, and I embrace my 70 inches of height, no longer trying to cram myself into clothes that don’t fit. Yes, my eyes now sport crow’s feet and those pesky “11” lines, but the woman who stands behind them is one I genuinely admire—a realization I could hardly fathom before this decade.
I run my own business and hold my ground against anyone who might try to dismiss me because I’m a woman. My 40s feel like the courage I had in my twenties, where I confidently stand tall in my chic wedge boots, ready to challenge anyone who underestimates me, fueled by a mix of confidence and life experience.
The striking lines of my cheekbones capture the light beautifully. I appreciate how my features complement each other, telling a story of laughter and hardship. I oscillate between heavy mascara and going completely natural, intrigued by how my preferences shift day by day.
My contentment isn’t tied to how I look. Often, I realize that what I crave isn’t true happiness but rather a fleeting thrill. My genuine measure of joy lies in the serenity I cultivate within. Did we even search for peace in our twenties? Back then, life was all about the chaos and the rush.
Being in my 40s means asserting myself across all facets of life—personally, professionally, and romantically. Whether it’s belting out tunes in my car or digging into the soil to plant a garden, I feel like I’m fully immersed in the essence of life, reaching out to both my beginnings and my future, both equally vibrant.
Perhaps the greatest surprise of my 40s is realizing just how much I have to look forward to as I navigate this journey.
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