Today, I marked another trip around the sun with a cake adorned by 46 candles. Usually, I’d throw in a cheeky quip like, “The flames were so intense, we had to summon the fire department!” But honestly, turning 46 is weighing on me more than I anticipated.
While this age doesn’t come with the typical milestone fanfare—no “Over the Hill” decorations to be found—I’ve felt the dread creeping in over the past few weeks. Perhaps it’s the realization that, according to any math I can conjure, I can no longer claim to be in my “early 40s.” I’ve officially landed in “mid-40s,” inching closer to the “late” section with only four years separating me from the big five-oh.
When I glance in the mirror, I don’t see an elderly woman staring back. Sure, there are a few lines by my eyes—call them crow’s feet if you will; I’m not bothered. I’ve stayed active, so my body remains fairly toned, but let’s be real: there are plenty of areas that jiggle way more than they used to. It’s alarming to realize how many yoga poses require me to maintain eye contact with new ripples of cottage cheese on my thighs.
My joints are also showing signs of wear. Some months, I see my chiropractor so often that I think he should send me a thank-you note for his new sports car! My back, hips, and knees are all protesting the passage of time, and I can feel it.
Yet, it’s not the physical changes that are troubling me. Instead, I’m grappling with a growing awareness of my own mortality. Let’s be honest: I’m scared of dying.
This fixation transforms benign concerns into catastrophes. That occasional cough? Definitely the first sign of lung cancer from secondhand smoke I inhaled somewhere over the past 552 months. That throb in my temple? Not just a migraine I’ve dealt with for years; no way—it’s a brain tumor. And those creaky joints? Surely signs of something sinister. A quick Google search leads me to believe I might be grappling with lupus, bone cancer, or muscular dystrophy.
I know this fear isn’t rational. Statistically, I should gracefully transition into my golden years; I mostly eat well, exercise regularly, and even incorporate fish oil and turmeric into my diet. I get regular skin cancer screenings and annual cholesterol tests. My father is thriving at 82, and my mother, at 76, looks like she’s in her 60s. Thankfully, there’s no history of deadly illness in my family.
But lacking solid evidence doesn’t lessen the suffocating worry. Someone once told me that fear and gratitude can’t coexist—that focusing on my anxiety would prevent me from appreciating life. But for me, it’s the opposite. My immense gratitude for my life—the home my partner and I have built with our three children, the love that envelops us—makes the thought of it being cut short unbearable. Sure, we have our challenges; there are days when I want to scream at everyone. Yet, deep down, I know how fortunate I am.
In the coming decade, my college-age son might tie the knot, my high school junior could land a full scholarship, and my youngest, who hasn’t even started kindergarten, will dazzle in dance recitals and horse shows. She’ll learn to read, experiment with makeup, and navigate her first crush and heartbreak. She will need me.
I envision these milestones with joy and a paralyzing fear: what if I miss any of them?
I’m still unsure why my seemingly innocuous 46th birthday has sparked all these emotions. Maybe it’s the realization that my youngest has so many years left before she’s fully raised. Perhaps it’s because people around me—of all ages—are facing serious health issues. Or maybe it’s simply that I have a circle of beautiful friends, none of whom have even hit 40 yet. Not one has the same jiggle factor, nor do they frequent the chiropractor’s office.
And of course, there’s the hope that one day, far in the future, I’ll get to embrace sticky-handed grandchildren. But first, there’s the task of guiding my own little ones through the ups and downs of their childhoods.
Reflecting on 46, I don’t truly feel that… old. Yet, this transitional phase has brought forth uncertainties and insights I didn’t anticipate. Turning 46 is a reminder that if things start to decline, it won’t be entirely unexpected. It suggests that I should brace myself for potential ominous news from the doctor. I find myself reading about acquaintances’ untimely departures on social media with alarming frequency.
At this age, I’m confronted with the disheartening truth that many of my fears are beyond my control. Whether I like it or not, 46 is here. With any luck, it will just be a momentary pause along the journey of a life well-lived—an opportunity to reflect on my blessings.
So as I extinguished those 46 candles tonight (in one breath, thank you very much!), I infused my wish with all the hope and courage I could muster. I simply wished for more candles in the years to come.
For more on navigating life’s challenges, check out our post on artificial insemination kits and cryobaby kits, and don’t forget to explore March of Dimes for invaluable resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary:
Turning 46 has brought up unexpected feelings of mortality and anxiety for Jessica Lane, even as she recognizes the many blessings in her life. As she reflects on her age and its implications, she grapples with the fear of missing out on significant milestones in her children’s lives. Ultimately, she hopes to embrace the future with gratitude.
Keyphrase: Turning 46 and Embracing Life
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