I didn’t expect to turn 40 with a head full of clarity, a heart full of peace, and a Google Doc full of potential lawsuits against people who did me dirty in my 20s. And yet—here we are.
There’s something oddly liberating about 40. It’s not the dramatic awakening people warned me about. There were no gray hairs sprouting in rebellion (those arrived ages ago), no existential crisis (I mean, I live in one), and no magical surge of maturity (I still laugh when someone says “duty”). What there was, though, was an overwhelming sense that I had finally run out of time to keep pretending certain things mattered.
Spoiler: most of them don’t.
And that’s been the greatest wisdom of my 40th year so far—not some profound philosophical shift, but the quiet, consistent realization that I get to choose how I spend my energy now. And honey, I’m not wasting it on anything that doesn’t nourish me, make me laugh, or pay me in tacos.
You Don’t Have to Be Liked By Everyone (Not Even Your Cousin With the MLM)
At some point—somewhere between surviving cancer, leaving toxic jobs, and embracing the calm of my relationship with Matthew—I stopped contorting myself into the shape of “palatable.” I used to try so hard to be agreeable, digestible, lovable… even to people who wouldn’t know what to do with love if it tap danced across their kitchen table.
Now? I wish them well. From a distance. Preferably one not measured in feet, but zip codes.
I’ve realized that not being universally liked isn’t a tragedy. It’s just data. If I’m too much for someone, that’s not my failure—it’s my filter.
You Really Do Start Caring About Fiber
Look, I don’t make the rules. One day you’re shotgunning energy drinks and calling Hot Cheetos a balanced breakfast, and the next you’re buying supplements with names like “Colon Harmony” and comparing Metamucil flavors with a level of seriousness usually reserved for wine tasting.
Is it humbling? Yes. But it’s also kind of empowering to finally understand your body’s signals and stop punishing it for needing, like, sleep and nutrients. I still indulge—Daisy and I are never skipping a brunch—but I also know now that joy isn’t just the dopamine of a fast-food run. It’s feeling good in your skin and not needing a nap after a grocery store trip.
The Softness is the Strength
When I was younger, I wore resilience like armor. Unbreakable. Unbothered. (Read: deeply exhausted and emotionally constipated.)
But 40 taught me something softer: true strength isn’t in the clenching, it’s in the release. It’s in letting yourself cry during an episode of The Great British Bake Off because someone’s custard collapsed and it reminded you of your last relationship. It’s in telling Matthew what you’re really feeling, even when you’re tempted to joke it away. It’s in admitting that sometimes you still don’t know what healing looks like—but you’re still choosing it anyway.
That’s power. The kind that doesn’t need applause or a TED Talk.
You Don’t Need the Whole World. You Just Need Your People.
At 40, my circle is smaller—but richer. The fluff is gone. I don’t waste time deciphering vague texts from flaky acquaintances or trying to win back people who ghosted me when I got sick. I have Matthew, who makes even my weirdest moments feel like a safe place. I have my chosen family—Shelby, Melissa, Keke, Tasi—who have stood by me longer than most streaming services stay in business. And I have Daisy, who would absolutely choose violence if anyone hurt me.
I don’t need hundreds of likes. I need one person to laugh at my nonsense and tell me my emotional baggage is at least designer.
The Clarity of 40? It’s the Freedom to Say: “No Thanks.”
No thanks to performative friendships.
No thanks to the war on carbs.
No thanks to being the unpaid therapist for people who drain the life out of me.
No thanks to dating apps, self-help books written by 25-year-olds, and TikTok trends that make me feel ancient.
No thanks to being polite when what I really mean is “please stop talking.”
At 40, you start saying no with your whole chest. And that makes every yes more meaningful. More delicious. More sacred.
I used to think aging meant fading into irrelevance. But now I see it for what it is: a shedding. Of pressure. Of people-pleasing. Of shame. And beneath all that? Me. Softer. Smarter. Stronger. And, let’s be real, still a little petty. But with purpose.
So here’s to the rest of 40. May it bring more clarity, more laughter, and more days where I say “hell yes” to joy—and “hell no” to anything that costs my peace.