Remember the excitement of hitting the halfway point of the year as a kid, when you could finally say you were “…and a half”? When did that joy fade away? I turned 40 a couple of years back, and honestly, I embraced it. Like many others navigating midlife, I grabbed that milestone with both hands. I took up running as a personal gift and won’t bore you with the details of my times, but let’s just say I exceeded my own expectations. I also sought therapy, delving deeper into myself than ever before. Oh, and I even got my first tattoo!
I wanted to share this journey with the world. “Lordy, Lordy…” I proclaimed on social media, keeping up with the customary birthday posts, and I soaked in all the birthday wishes. I wasn’t shy about my age, not like popular culture suggested I should be. I didn’t feel old—whatever that means—and I certainly didn’t look it.
As I scrolled through updates from high school and college friends, I noticed something eye-opening: most of us didn’t look old at all (okay, maybe not all of us, but certainly a good number). They seemed to look precisely how they should at this stage in life. It hit me then—my generation is actively reshaping the narrative around middle age. Forget the dreary stereotypes of turning 40, complete with black balloons and “Over the Hill” banners. A friend remarked, “Forty is the new 30,” and I wholeheartedly agreed.
But then, over the next year, I witnessed a curious trend. Many friends began to erase evidence of their actual ages from social media. Specific birthdates disappeared, graduation years were obscured, and their #tbt posts went from “Can you believe this was 19 years ago?” to vague references to “some time in the past.” It seemed we were slipping through an invisible barrier from “youthful” to “aging,” and I couldn’t quite grasp why.
“We’re vibrant, successful, hilarious, and attractive!” I would silently cheer to my friends. Forty is the new 30! I repeated this mantra to fend off a creeping sense of unease. Living in a college town didn’t help; I aged while the majority of the population remained in their youthful bubble, year after relentless year.
Why, at 40, do we suddenly feel the need to hide our ages, as if admitting it was a secret sin rather than a badge of honor? When my friends and I turned 41, hardly anyone mentioned the number. “Aging backwards now, right?” was the humor in birthday posts or shared memes about how “Age is merely an attitude, not a number.” But here’s the truth: age is a number, and it deserves to be celebrated, not shamed.
This heart of mine, once just a tiny flicker on an ultrasound, has been beating for over 40 years. In that time, I’ve faced labor and delivery twice (three times if you count my own), navigated awkward junior high years, weathered hurricanes, endured questionable hairstyles, and survived countless life challenges. I’ve lived through a childhood without car seats, childproof locks, or bike helmets. I’ve remained standing after two car accidents, adventurous overseas travels as a teen, and the ups and downs of raising two kids. Heck, I’ve even indulged in Pop Rocks with a chaser of Pepsi!
I have friends who have scaled mountains, authored bestsellers, triumphed over adversity, climbed corporate ladders, raised remarkable children, and even started their own nonprofits. Achievements like these require not only energy and ambition but also time—years, even decades. The evidence is there on their driver’s licenses, though few would dare to share that.
I must admit, I fell prey to the pressure last year and obscured my birthdate on Facebook, fearing I’d be the lone 41-year-old on display. But there was something unsettling about hiding “1975.” Was I ashamed of my birth year? Not at all. Did I wish to erase a few years? Not particularly. Would I want to go back to my 30s? Absolutely not.
Sure, I’m not overly fond of some aspects of aging—my carefree hair dye days are dwindling, and I’m not thrilled with the deepening laugh lines. But those lines are a testament to a life filled with laughter, mistakes, growth, love, and a myriad of experiences over 42 years—well, 42 and a half to be precise.
So here’s to proudly proclaiming our age, complete with faded Polaroids of questionable hairstyles as our proof.
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In summary, we should embrace our age and celebrate the journey it represents, rather than shy away from it. Each year is a testament to our resilience, growth, and the lives we’ve lived.
Keyphrase: Embracing Age Over 40
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