As I approach my 40s, the signs of aging are becoming all too apparent. My hair is starting to show grey strands that defy gravity, and my laugh lines are a constant reminder of the joy—and the years—that have passed. I’ve even noticed a little waddle creeping in, reminiscent of John Cage from Ally McBeal. But here’s the thing: I refuse to label myself as middle-aged. After all, what does that even mean? My mother considered herself middle-aged at just 25, while my husband’s grandmother felt that way at 51 and a half. It’s not merely a number; it’s a societal construct often tied to self-doubt and crisis. And I’m not buying into that.
In many ways, I feel like I’ve only truly begun to embrace life in recent years. My early childhood memories are few and far between—like pouring sand into a tree trunk because my best friend claimed it would help it grow (spoiler alert: it didn’t), or being lured back home with the promise of a peanut butter cup after a failed escape. Those moments are hazy at best.
Looking back at my awkward tween years, I sometimes wish I could relive them—not because they were particularly enjoyable, but because I’d approach them with the knowledge I have now. I’d rock English class, stand up for the underdogs without worrying about my social status, and ditch those cringe-worthy high-topped shoes a lot sooner.
My 20s were all about learning—going through college, navigating law school, and then diving headfirst into adulthood. I learned how to manage finances, how to explore new cities, and how to let go of relationships that weren’t right. I was discovering who I truly was.
Then came my early 30s, which were a chaotic whirlwind of pregnancy, sleepless nights, and the overwhelming question of what to do with these tiny humans I had brought into the world. It was a time filled with uncertainty and exhaustion, constantly second-guessing myself.
Now, as I confidently stride into my late 30s, my focus has shifted. I’ve chosen my friends and my partner wisely, and I feel accomplished in my career. I’m raising three wonderful kids and carving out time for my own passions—running, knitting, and writing. Sure, my body shows the wear and tear of my experiences: my eyesight is less than perfect thanks to late nights spent studying, and my face bears the marks of laughter shared with loved ones. My body might not be what it once was after three pregnancies and years of breastfeeding, but those “battle scars” tell my story.
I know my learning journey isn’t over. The thought of it ending terrifies me—what would life be without growth? I’m sure there are more challenges ahead, especially when my kids hit their teenage years. I’ll probably have a new set of scars to add to my collection.
If I’m fortunate, true middle age is still a ways off. There’s so much I want to achieve and learn. What choice do I have but to embrace these scars? They are far better than the alternative. I might grimace at my reflection occasionally, wishing for a younger face, and I might curse those defying grey hairs. But I stand proud on the brink of 40, ready to live life to the fullest.