40 was always the big milestone, the “over the hill” age. It’s the age of big parties and black balloons and ageist jokes. But for me, it was … not much. It was following on yet another COVID spike, in yet another dreary February that seemed to go on for far too long and involve far too many gray skies. It was wondering why I would even bother having a party because I wouldn’t have enough friends to attend. It was desperately contemplating every day if I would ever stop being so damn tired. It was a slight mid-life crisis that felt more like a slog through quicksand. It was being disappointed in myself that I was 40 and this much of a mess.

Now, I realize that a lot of that was burnout turned to depression talking. If there’s one thing that depression does, it lies like a bitch. I started recognizing that burnout and depression the fall before, but really started turning the corner on it just after my birthday.

In the following year, I tackled and let go of so many of the misconceptions and false pride I was hanging onto. I found better ways to ask for and accept help. I learned to rest when I needed it rather than endlessly pushing through. I realized that anxiety doesn’t necessarily look like catastrophizing but also like nightmares and headaches and endless planning. I tentatively balanced my needs and my kids’ needs rather than always putting them first and me last. I started to accept my own limits and not run my energy levels down to negative. I found ways to move beyond obsessing over my book as a measure of my value and impact and finding new ways to connect with my community. I both struggled with the fact that my autistic neurodivergence is apparently much more obvious than I realized and began to realize that the people in my life who love me, love me because of all of who I am.

So for me at least, 41 feels much more momentous than 40 did. 40 felt like a thud; 41 feels like more of a restart. I wouldn’t say I have my shit together by any means, but I feel a lot more comfortable in my life and myself than I did a year ago. It wasn’t about figuring out who I am or “refinding” myself. But it was very much about making space for me to treat myself the way I want to treat other people.

While I feel the difference in every day stuff, there was something recently that really brought the difference home. Two weekends ago, my husband and I took our annual “couple’s weekend” away. My parents take the kids for a weekend; we get a hotel room and have a nice dinner together. After dinner, I wanted to – of all things – go clubbing. I am not kidding. As a 41 year old, I wanted to go to the cool bars. So we went. Chris hemmed and hawed a bit about being dragged to a dance club, but came along for my sake. I think he was remembering past experiences decades ago where I would want to go dancing but then complain about the music, that I couldn’t hear anything, how uncool I felt in comparison to everyone else, etc. etc. etc.

But you know what? I felt much more comfortable there this time, in my mom sweater a week before my 41st birthday, than I ever did in my 20s. I honestly *did not care* about other people’s opinions. I’ve never changed myself drastically to suit other people’s opinions – I’m pretty much unable to. But I still cared and worried about them. That concern would get under my skin. But now? Now, I was there to have a good time like everyone else. Despite having at least a decade on everyone else there, they smiled back and treated us like we belonged there. We danced for about 45 minutes, got tired, and left. It was perfect.

This past year has just been the start of this work. I’m always learning, always changing. Growing up is, in fact, a lifelong process. Part of the difference is now that I’m learning to enjoy the journey instead of just wondering when we’re going to get to the goal.