Happy 40th Birthday to Me!

October 2nd, 1983—my birthday. I’m a Libra. Growing up, I liked my birthday: I was always one of the youngest in my class. I love having a fall birthday. I love having a birthday near Halloween. I love that my birthday is during the school year. 

There’s a lot to enjoy about my actual day of birth. It’s the year that’s problematic lately. More and more, being born in the ‘80s means I’m “old”. Older, anyway. My pop culture references are falling flat more frequently in the classroom. I turn on Sirius and don’t recognize any names of current songs on the stations. My mom and I get the same catalogues from the same clothing stores. My pride? Well, it’s hurting.

While I wish I could say I’m wearing the title of 40-YEAR-OLD FEMALE with self-confidence and self-assuredness—I am so fucking N O T. I am not at all excited about turning 40. I don’t want to be 40. Not at all. I don’t see it as entering this whole new era of IDGAF-ness, because I’m still years away from that (and that’s an entire blog post by itself). And I am absolutely not ready to accept any kinds of restrictions placed on my physical being in ways that certain subsets of society would say “women of a certain age” (aka over 40) should.  

I’m also struggling because when I turned 30, I was smack in the middle of working towards my master’s degree in occupational therapy. That was hard because I was at least five years older than half of my cohort. I felt as if I was crossing this momentous threshold they were not—one they could not even begin to imagine crossing. And now, I am at another age-related touchstone, and I am once again in the middle of pursuing a new career path. I fully recognize what a privilege it is to have these opportunities, yet it can be hard to watch those who are the same age as you hit certain career milestones you won’t achieve for at least five years due to your own flightiness: promotions; raises; publications; length of service awards; attending conferences; certifications; tenure. Shit, if I had started my own Instagram page sooner, maybe I would have found my niche and my audience before now! 

The point of this is not to tell you how I picked myself up from these thoughts. Technically, I don’t even turn 40 until nearly midnight on October 2, 2023. I might not actually be over these feelings for quite some time. At the end of the day, I want to leave this world better than I found it, and I am still trying to figure out how best to do that. I also want to find the path to professional happiness and personal fulfillment. People talk as if your 40s are when that happens, and I guess I was expecting the lead up to turning 40 would be me getting excited about this momentous birthday. But no dice. Any suggestions are welcome, truly.

So, is there anything that I am looking forward to in my 40s? 

  • Well, I’m excited to finish my PhD (G-d willing). Of course, then comes the job-finding and the expectations that come with that, but at least I will officially be a DOCTOR

  • It will remain bittersweet watching Baer grow and flourish. He is such a wonderful child, and I do adore him. I just hate that he’s getting so big! Where did my baby go?

  • I will finally, F I N A L L Y, be able to live in our finished home! It’s been over two months since we moved out and the construction team took over. It will feel like the best birthday gift ever to finally be home!

  • I just look forward to seeing what the next decade has in store for my little family. We’ve been pretty fortunate these last ten years, and there’s been the good and the bad. Nate and I got married! I became an OT. We moved four times (New York, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Wisconsin again). We lost my grandmother. We lost Harris, my Jack Russell. We added Baer, and of course, Mimi, the minpin. Nate helped me recover from a challenging (to say the least; you could also call it traumatic) childbirth. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety, and we dealt with that together. We logged thousands of miles in travels. I had an amazing Mommy Makeover and reclaimed my postpartum body and spirit.

The clock doesn’t stop at 11:59pm and 39. And it doesn’t pick up at midnight and 40. So, maybe 40 won’t be the worst. Keep cheering me on, though. I won’t be mad about it!

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