I can see clearly now that my 30s have gone.
The immediate clemency that 40 granted me was unexpected. The invisible timeline of my 30s had dissolved; the constant urgency to obtain; the endless chase of a conditioned dream; an algorithm of angst…
Poof.
All the obstacles in my way…
Gone.
It’s been 6 months since I turned 40 in a big bathtub in Peru, and, honey, it’s been glorious. This sense of ease has surprisingly been sustained, and I’ve been singing the praises of entering middle age ever since.
“Oh my goodness! All of it – my life, my love, my relationships, me. It’s enough. IT’S ALL ENOUGH! We did it!”
My Gen Z colleagues now gather around my elder millennial glow as I dole out my hard-earned wisdom collected along my picaresque path. I say things like, “when I was your age,” and, honey, let me tell you,” and, “is [insert Y2K fashion faux pas here] really in style again?.”
My stories now go back decades. Tales of transient love, misadventures around the world, and soul-searching like it was my side hustle.
The Zs say I have allure, which naturally I love.
Because I earned it!
Indeed, my life has been a wave of experiencing, seeking, agonizing, analyzing, romanticizing, unlearning, clarifying and, now, what I like to call The Great Unfolding.
Letting it all just fucking be.
Seriously, I have felt so free lately. I haven’t ruminated the way I usually do, or stressed out over small things. I’m showing up in spaces exactly the way I am, without the need to perform.
“Here I am, world. This is what you get. You’re welcome.”
My engineer friend Andrew told me I’m in “steady state.” I say I’m in neutral.
Either way, I feel great.
Honestly, I’m struggling to find things to talk about in therapy. No need to bemoan my past. Have no desire to overanalyze my romantic life. My boundaries are built and my toolkit is sharp.
(note: I just had a wildly deep session with my therapist involving tears, trauma, and a symbolic rainbow over the ocean. Life! Am I right?!)
(Despite this, and for the most part)…
I feel easy. I feel breezy.
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind.
It also helps that 2026 is The Sacral Year. The year of receiving. The year I proclaimed to pursue pleasure without penance. To be grounded and graceful. To dance more.
To say yes to what feels good.
And 40 feels good.
I had a thought right before my birthday.
Statistically, when I turn 40, the dating app algorithm will kick me out of the age range most men set. An already dismal dating pool made smaller. How sad that a potential partner won’t meet me in my most realized form. I’ve never felt sexier or more radiant. Vital.
Fuck the algorithm.
What followed this thought was an immediate deletion of the apps that have distracted me for so many years, and the renewed challenge to log off and go take my light to the people of God.
Which I did, that same night. And I met a tall, handsome, British man named Steve.
Tsunami Steve.
Of course.
This chance encounter caused a rip current of revelry that led to a stormy, 4-day affair in Bermuda, leaving a wake of rapture and ruin.
Jeez.
I went out for a beer, and somehow summoned a full natural disaster.
Guess the tide was high that night.
But I asked for it.
And it felt good.
Anyway, back to the middle. The warm, rooted, golden center. The sweet spot. Forty. Maybe my favorite age yet (with honorable mention to every threshold year of my 30s).
We will have to wait and see.
For now, I’ll continue my writing journey and jot down my musings of what unfolds, in hopes of finding humor and clarity in this wild and wonderful new era.
To all my 39-year-old girlies (I’m looking at my single ladies): Don’t panic.
It’s gonna be a bright, BRIGHT, bright, bright, sunshiny decade.
Oh! And what’s the forecast on Tsunami Steve? Well, he’s holding my swimsuit hostage in London. I intend to go back into the eye of the storm this summer to retrieve it.
Updated weather report to follow.
Okay. Enough storm metaphors. See you soon.
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