Not dead yet, and won't age quietly

It’s rare I get writer’s block. I don’t believe in it. But I starved for ideas this week. You know why? Because I’m 40. Let me repeat that. I’m 40. It’s been a slap in the baps.

My birthday was on April 24, and a fortnight later my every waking thought is “I’m 40.” I keep checking parts of my body for evidence of this inconceivable truth. I’ve done the math: 1985 deducted from 2025 is indeed 40. The World Wide Web didn’t exist when I was born. Phones had cords, and people carried cash. You could smoke on an airplane. That’s how old I am.

I think I’m having a midlife crisis. Maybe mixed with early menopause, possibly a heart attack, or — as suggested — I’m being dramatic.

But I’m scared. Scared of time wasted, wrong decisions and running out of options. Scared my best days are behind me. In search of reassurance, I googled “women at 40.” Mistake. I was met with pages about “fashion for the over 40s” and cheery reminders about mammograms. I’ve moved down a box in the age category on medical forms, and my social media feed has shifted from vacation spots to anti-aging cream. Apparently, I’m past my prime.

Who decided we have a “best before” date, and why should anyone accept it?

I’ve banged on about this milestone to friends for months. Most have passed it and talk about greater confidence and clarity. I hear “40” and hear “invisible.” Why? Because that’s what I was taught. Men age like wine; women age like milk. Our relevance lies in our beauty, and our beauty is tied to our worth. Of course, men feel the sting of stigma too, and the better part of me knows ageism is trash. Still, 40 wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was young, for like ... ever.

The shock of age is amplified by its sneakiness. You don’t see age every day because every day you see you. It’s like gaining weight. We collect years by accident, until one day we look in the mirror and find time has tattooed itself across our skin. I’m seeing this change in action; I don’t much like it. But gradually, my perspective is changing too.

I won’t write a postcard piece about aging because I’m still getting used to it. But nor will I subscribe to the idea that anyone over any threshold is somehow worth less.

I spent two decades hating my body. I still hate it. Only now it’s softer. I worried about what I had and what I didn’t have; who I was and who I wasn’t. Self-doubt meant 20 years passed without appreciating the gift of life. And therein lies the bitter joke of time. Only in its passing do we realise how precious it is.

Age is cruel. It’s cruel that we shrivel, that people leave, that things end. But there’s extraordinary privilege in sticking around long enough to witness it. To know loss means to have known love.

What’s really scary isn’t getting older. It’s a miserable future. Honoring poor choices to stay comfy. Losing interest in the endless possibilities of tomorrow. Spending so much time mourning yesterday that you miss today.

I’m continuing my right to exist with Lady Gaga. I’m going to see her next month in Singapore. I wouldn’t declare myself a diehard fan, but she is an example of life done differently. At 39, there’s no indication of Gaga apologizing for her age. She’s constantly reinventing herself and refuses to be defined by expectation. That’s what I need. I will wear something fabulous and dance badly, because why not? This is my now. My 40-year-old now. And it deserves to be celebrated.

I know at 50 I’ll think 40 was young and at 70 I’ll see this rant for the ridiculousness it is. This is the youngest I — or you — will ever be. Isn’t that terrifying? Isn’t that wonderful?

I’m working harder to be here. To embrace change instead of fighting it. To see the pleasure in growing older in a world where many don’t get the chance. I’m coating my skin in lotions I was saving. I’m making new friends knowing they won’t be around forever and continuing to learn because there’s so much I don’t know.

I’m not dead yet. If you’re reading this, neither are you. Perhaps the real crisis isn’t getting older; it’s letting the fear of it stop you from noticing the beauty in what remains. Like writer’s block, age isn’t about running out of experiences, ideas or moments of joy. It’s about being on the cusp of new ones.

Now is all we have, and it’s everything worth living for.