I turned 40 this year. I’m officially middle-aged and old. I’ve decided at 40 I am not taking any prisoners and have decided that I won’t allow people to fuck with me.
What the hell does that mean?
I promised myself I would gain more confidence and stop caring so much about what other people think. Now I know why elderly people (80s and up) are so bold. They have spent so much time living that they just don’t care what the hell they do or what they say. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to that point, but I realized I’ve been much more outspoken as a mom and at work.
I made my husband promise to hang up a sign on my birthday that said, “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s forty!”
I am embracing 40. Though I have a lot of aches and pains from my earlier ages that are catching up with me. Random aches and pains that I never had 20 years ago. If I had a bad fall, I would probably need to get checked out by a doctor rather than brushing it off like I did in my early 30s. I’m friends with 27- and 30-year-olds so I like to feel that I’m kinda young, but then they use phrases like “gucci” and “yer,” and I realize how out of touch I am. Lol. Now I know how my parents felt when I said, “That is phat” and “What’s the deally, yo?” My son keeps doing the “infinite dab” and I’m like, uh, okay, sure, as long as it doesn’t hurt anybody or get you in trouble.
I still look relatively young. I don’t have wrinkles (yet) or crow’s feet. My skin seems to be in okay condition, and with the exception of a few grays, my hair is solidly black. I have a theory that once menopause begins, I’ll begin sprouting gray hairs much faster. Perimenopause doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon.
After 10 years of undergoing fertility treatments and focusing on having children, it’s incredibly weird to be in a state where I say, “I’m done.” The factory is closed. No more kids. No baby oopsies. I have learned (especially with my 2nd) that pregnancy fucks with my mental health and I am incredibly miserable. So miserable to the point where I want to commit suicide. I once met a woman who had to have an abortion for that reason—in her first trimester. She was torn up about it because she really wanted kids but they didn’t have money for a surrogate and she didn’t want to adopt. Prenatal depression is real and something most people don’t talk about. For all those women who have wonderful pregnancies and glow up until their labor, there are just as many women who are sick, hate their pregnancy, and are miserable. I was one of them. I had severe postpartum depression after my son was born but struggled mentally due to sickness. While pregnant with my daughter, I had severe prenatal depression with suicidal ideation and the only thing that kept me from killing myself was knowing that I wanted my child so bad.
But 9 months is a long time. And I can’t go through that again.
The nausea. The vomiting. The lack of appetite. The relentless suicidal thoughts. And it was at its worst a few weeks before labor. I’ve firmly determined that baby oops is not an option for me. But I digress.
Being 40 also presents itself with new challenges. Focusing on self-care even while taking care of my children. Making time for myself. (That now happens at 4:30 am before the kids get up for school.) Exploring options with my spirituality. Did Christianity HAVE to be it?
Almost every decade of my life (except maybe 0-10), it’s been met with hard challenges, internally and externally. Not that I’m looking for 40 to be smooth sailing, but I want to make it the best decade of my life.
I choose joy.
This Journey Is My Own 