I’m 39 today, and honestly, I’m feeling a bit perplexed. This age is nothing like what I envisioned it would be. There are so many things I thought I would have mastered by now, yet I continue to engage in activities I assumed I’d have left behind.
For many, this birthday seems to glide by unnoticed, merely a checkpoint on the route to 40, a milestone that looms ahead. My father remarks that this is the year you stop counting, while a friend jokes that it’s all downhill from here. “Just wait,” my partner promises, hinting at the changes yet to come.
Turning 39 appears to be a resting place, a brief pause before diving into a new decade. We tend to mark our lives with significant events—a marriage, a divorce, the arrival of a child—where ten years represent something tangible. When I reflect on my 30s, what will I recall?
At 39, I find myself caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. I can still pull off a cartwheel in the front yard, surrounded by a sea of autumn leaves with my neighbors watching. I can race my nine-year-old home from the park and reach the mailbox first, even though I know I should let him win.
However, the mornings remind me of my age; my back feels stiff, my feet often ache, and my hands show signs of fatigue. I think back to my parents at this age, when I began to see them as truly “old.” The thought that I will never again carry a baby within me, nor feel the warmth of a small child nestled against my chest, lingers in my mind.
Now, I sleep through the night without interruption, with no infants to wake me. My teenage daughter has driven herself to the store to buy me flowers for my birthday, and she even arranged them in a vase.
I’ve come to appreciate the beauty in actions over appearances. The love songs playing on the radio? They no longer resonate with me or reflect the experiences of women my age. Some nights, I yearn for a chance to dress up and dance, to reconnect with the younger, vibrant version of myself. Yet, most evenings find me cozying up under the down comforter, my feet snuggled into warm socks beside my partner.
When darkness blankets the home and everyone else is asleep, I sometimes feel the urge to leap from the doorway to the bed, fearing the imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows. Those childhood fears linger, transformed into the anxiety of adulthood.
I am a woman who knows things—who cares for children and strangers alike, soothing them when they are fragile. I’ve grasped the importance of what to say and what to leave unsaid. I appreciate my 39-year-old face, with its unique features and gentle lines.
So here I stand at 39, ready to start anew. Whether it’s a fresh year or one last chance at this decade, the notion of counting years can wait. Instead, I aim to make this year truly count. Welcome to 39.
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