Struggling to blow out 40 candles
Ten years ago, I actively looked forward to my 30th birthday. My 30s felt like they'd burst with limitless possibilities. I knew there would be plenty of change, and even struggle, to come. But I was equally confident there would be a lot of good—and what felt like endless time to enjoy it all.
And now?
40 doesn’t sound as old as it did when I was a kid. The gallows humor isn’t as dark. The décor isn’t as black. I can’t remember the last time I heard someone use the phrase “Over the Hill” in reference to 40.
Societally, 40 doesn’t seem the big deal it was when I was a kid. My parents had huge surprise parties for each other that involved elaborate distractions and subterfuge. I can’t think of any of my friends who did anything close to that for their 40th, (although the pandemic probably played a role).
But the closer today crept, the more dread I felt. It’s not so much the number “40” but more the severe contraction of that expansive world I envisioned at 30. It’s a general “how did I get here?” malaise: remembering what I wanted to be when I grew up, where I thought I’d be when I hit 40, and remembering how those dreams morphed and faded over time. It’s thinking about the choices I've made, how they've led me here, and wondering why I made them. Were they the right ones? Am I where I should be? Did I make a wrong turn? When and where?
I wanted to eventually get married and have kids, and, yes, I achieved that. I married the guy I had a crush on in college, and the kids we have together are sweet, smart, and beautiful. But I also thought I’d be on a steady career path, knowing where I wanted to go and how to get there. I wanted to “have it all,” like everyone told us we could when we were little girls in the late ‘80s and ‘90s and the world was a very different place.
So many women I knew in high school, college, and grad school, or with whom I’ve worked, seem to have found their way to “it all.” Women who’ve balanced having kids while becoming vice presidents and presidents of organizations or starting thriving companies of their own. Women who’ve earned awards like 30 under 30 and 40 under 40. Women who have bountiful social lives full of friends and dinners and trips with other high-flying women. Women who have found a community in moms groups, who have no trouble finding play dates for their kids or fellow parents to lean on for a commiserating coffee or happy hour.
I have the kids part of “it all,” but I've fallen flat everywhere else. Turning 40 has held up a mirror to that realization, which I’ve spent a long time hiding from. It’s a stark reminder of how far I’ve strayed from where I thought I could, or should, be.
Is this what a mid-life crisis is? Taking stock of your life to date and feeling disappointed in it (and feeling guilty for feeling that way)?
This sounds stupid, I get it. 40 isn’t "old" anymore. I have half (or more) of my life ahead of me. Yet it feels like every ounce of that life is geared toward survival—navigating life with two small kids, attempting to keep my little freelance business afloat, standing at the ready to drop everything whenever Dan’s job throws a 5:30 p.m. meeting on his schedule at 4:30 or demands his presence in California, trying to have a relationship with him beyond the transactional “Who’s taking TJ to soccer?” or “Did you make Maggie’s bottles yet?” Yes, there is time to find the things I’m seeking, personally and professionally. But I don’t know that I have the energy or resilience to do it.
Every decision feels fraught. Each option has a steep downside. When I think about what I could do to recharge myself professionally—go back to school, seek an internship in a new field, join a creative writing group and finally write that book I’ve had in mind for years—I’m cowed by the daunting financial investment, stress caused by reduced flexibility to take care of the kids, and a deep-seated fear of failing. When I think about what I could do to recharge myself personally—trying to find a mom friend group here, revitalizing relationships with friends far away—I’m reminded of the many times I’ve tried before, and how each rejection has grown more painful, from a quick sting to a gut-punch.
Maybe this is just life—adjusting to the consequences of the choices you've made and the circumstances of the era you're living in. Maybe everyone feels this way at 40—but no one dares to talk about it out loud, much less post it on a blog for all to see.
In just about every appointment, my therapist encourages me to adopt the mantra, "This is temporary," as a way to get through the choppy seas of my life. But temporary is a relative term. This particular "temporary" I've been feeling is about five years old. If it goes five more, will it be too late to make the changes I need to find my way back to "it all," or at least in the neighborhood?
I hope not.