The day I turned forty, I wept. That morning, I had taken extra care with my outfit and makeup and as I stood admiring myself in the professionally-lit full length mirror, my husband walked in, looked at me appreciatively and said; “you look like a forty-year-old woman”. As soon as I heard those words, my heart sunk to my feet. Having known my husband for close to two decades, I could tell his words were meant as a compliment. This awareness, however, did not stop the panic I felt washing over me as I drove to work.
At around seven that evening as the office quieted down, I started mulling over what it meant to be a forty-year-old woman. I knew my husband and children were waiting to celebrate with me at home, but try as I could, I could not get myself to get out of my office to drive home.
At nine, my husband wondering if I was alright, called and I am embarrassed to admit that I took advantage of the concern I could detect in his voice to say I was a little bit held up and would be coming home late. I asked them to have dinner and told them I would wake them up as soon as I got home. I opened a bottle of champagne I had received from a client as a birthday present and sat in my office drinking alone. The more champagne I drank, the sadder I got until I started crying and then weeping uncontrollably.
Forty was such a significant number. I was stunned that I was actually forty years old, which meant I was officially old. As an avid planner, I planned every stage of my life and so far, everything had gone according to that plan. How could I have forgotten to plan for the actual act of becoming older? I felt blindsided that no one ever cared enough to tell me that there would be a time like this when I would feel helpless and lost.
The rest of the night was a blur. I remember going home and telling my husband I had had a hectic day and just wanted to lie down. Somehow, I wanted that day to not have gone the way it did.
Aging is like an accident or illness; in theory, everyone knows that they are susceptible to it, but no one thinks it will ever happen to them. Now that it had, I realized I couldn’t turn back the clock. As a strategist, I understood that the sensible course was to embrace this new chapter and make the most of it.
Like Rubashov, I felt as if I had lost something very important to me and it was too late to fix it. I woke up every morning not believing that this was my new life. And every morning like clockwork, I went through disbelief, shock, pain, confusion and horror.
Having been brought up in a deeply religious home, I have always found churches safe and comforting. Church is where I leave all of my troubles and seek answers. So it was not a coincidence that I changed my daily routine to add an hour in church. I asked God for guidance and told Him that I felt lost and I didn’t know where to turn next. It was especially calming to see that I wasn’t the only person who found their way into church on weekday afternoons. I had a lot of questions and concerns, but after months of crying and begging, I started feeling this internal peacefulness. Most days I just sat there meditating and left feeling at peace within myself.
The peace I had found led me to realise that this was not the end of my life, but the beginning of a new one. Aging is a profound teacher, if we choose to listen. It counsels patience and acceptance, offering the hard-won gifts of perspective and experience. Over the decades, it whittles away our concern for others’ opinions, prunes the unnecessary, and allows us to finally blossom into our true selves. I now care little for protocol, norms, or the rules of society.
Life is a marathon, trained for by every cycle, season, win and loss. Our resilience is built in the simple, repeated act of getting up and bouncing back. The storms are easier to weather once you’ve survived so many. I realized that how I lived was my choice. My focus now is on self-care and nurturing the new dreams, hopes, and ambitions that will guide me into this next chapter.
My obsession with aging and success led me to seek out other women’s stories, both in conversation and in the pages of history. I was astonished by what I found. Laura Ingalls Wilder was 65 when she published her first Little House book. Grandma Moses only began painting at 78 after arthritis forced her to stop embroidering. I learned about Rachel Ruysch, who proudly signed her age on masterpieces painted in her eighties, and Sojourner Truth, who fought for justice into her seventies. The brilliant Toni Morrison worked deep into her eighties, and Beatrice Wood, created art until her death at 105, publishing her autobiography at 92. Their legacies validated my faith; my new chapter was not an ending, but a beginning brimming with possibility.
Research shows that if you believe getting older has benefits, you are more likely to stay healthier and happier. I have seen this play out in real life with four women I knew.
Two of them fought against aging every step of the way into their nineties. Of course, their failing health was a struggle, but their misery was deeper. They had built their entire self-worth on youth and beauty. They bought into our culture’s obsession with being young and spent their lives chasing the perfect life. They never broke the rules or did anything spontaneous. They grew cruel and sad, refusing to accept their changing bodies and abandoning their creativity. They eventually slipped into dementia, leaving the world as shadows of who they once were.
I do not know which category I will end up in, but I am learning from their examples. Age comes for everyone. The question is what we do with the time we have. The fun is in the living, because in the end, nothing lasts.
On the other hand, are two of the most positive people I know, now in their late nineties, have embraced every stage of life. They stayed connected to family and were always learning. Even when aging dealt them difficult hands, like facing serious health issues, they remained curious and hopeful. They never cared what society thought of them or what they had lost but rather found joy in their loved ones and the lives they built.
At 52, I am keenly aware of how we waste hours anticipating variables and worst-case outcomes. But the truth is, I think we sometimes give up on expecting goodness because it feels too vulnerable. No one can switch off your light when you are already sitting in the dark. It becomes easier to sit in worry because then you are never shocked or disappointed when things turn out as you feared. But I have more patience for life’s unpredictability and less for foolish people. I can finally see a future for myself. I am ready for a chapter of looking outward, of creating, learning, and trying to make a difference.
I have learned one powerful secret; your journey is yours alone. Don’t judge yourself too harshly, because no one truly knows what they are doing. We are all just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to figure it out day by day. And this faithful forward motion is what prepares us for the wonders that are still waiting to unfold.
