Thirty-nine, and fine with it

The column you are reading right now was published two days before my birthday, which feels very on brand for someone who has spent the better part of a decade learning to stop leaving things to the last minute. (Still working on that one, if I am honest.)

Here is what I know about getting older: it actually gets good.

They tell you about the hangovers.

They are right about those.

Two glasses of wine on a Tuesday is now a medical event requiring a full recovery day, electrolytes, and a firm conversation with myself about life choices.

They tell you about the metabolism. Also accurate.

Skip pilates for a week and overload on carbs, and my body has a very loud opinion about it now.

And yes, I am approximately three years overdue to see my botox lady.

Hi Dr Wod, love you, miss you. I am coming soon, I promise.

But here is the thing I want to put on a birthday card.

The older I get, the more I actually like being me.

Curiosity has carried me further than any plan I have ever made.

It has always been there, pulling me towards the next question, the next idea, the next conversation I did not expect to have.

What I know now that I did not know at 22, is that you do not need the answers.

You just need to stay curious. Make mistakes. Figure it out.

That is the whole game.

I have also developed what I can only describe as a very healthy relationship with not caring.

Not apathy. Not checked out.

I mean the quiet, grounded freedom that comes from genuinely understanding what actually matters and letting the rest go.

The things that kept me up at night at 29 mostly make me laugh now.

The opinions I was desperate for people to have of me feel so much less urgent.

There is a lightness in that I did not expect.

Patience arrived somewhere around 37, and I am deeply grateful for it.

I used to want everything resolved, decided, concluded.

Now I can sit with uncertainty and trust the process.

Things unfold. People surprise you.

Seasons change.

It is fine.

I have made peace with more things than I can list in 550 words.

With imperfection. With slowness.

With the fact that some relationships are seasonal and that is not a failure.

With the reality that my body is a living thing that needs tending, not punishing.

With the understanding that most of the drama I participated in my 20s was entirely optional.

And I keep getting better at being a human.

Not perfect. Not finished. Just better.

So yes, maybe I cannot eat what I used to eat or drink what I used to drink.

Maybe 40 is closer than 30 now.

But have you heard? The 40s are the new 30s.

I have it on very good authority.

Thirty-nine feels like standing at the edge of something good.

I am ready.