On Turning 39: Notes from the Far Side of Youth

I know it’s a cliché, but I couldn’t be more sincere: Aging. Is. Awesome.

I see you, eye-rollers. And to you, Future Me—rereading this when a rogue chin hair or a sleep wrinkle throws you off your game—know that I wrote this in full daylight, with unflinching honesty, on the other side of yet another birthday.

Let me make one thing clear: I am not above quietly freaking out about the gray streaks winding their way through my hair, or the map of tiny wrinkles that has begun to chart my face. The slowing of my metabolism? NOT my cup of tea. But here’s the secret no one tells you: all of that is background noise compared to the wild, unexpected joy of getting older.

Aging, for me, has been less about losing things and more about gaining ground—on my own mind, my preferences, my space in the world.

Here’s what I love most:

• There is a certain invisibility cloak that comes with age, and I don’t just mean that creepy old men don’t look twice. (But yes—finally!) It’s the kind of invisibility that lets me slide into Aldi in sweatpants and run errands makeup-free, unbothered and unburdened by a mental slideshow of what strangers think. Spoiler: they’re not thinking about me at all, and what a delicious relief that is.

• I spend less time plotting ways to “burn off” dessert and more time savoring cake with friends, knowing that the memory will last longer than any guilt.

• Best of all, I am—unapologetically—proud of my own mind. I second guess myself far less than I did at 22 (or even 32). I’m very comfortable being alone with my own thoughts, and I’m far slower to share them with just anyone.

Here’s the other thing: I’m not remotely concerned with how most people perceive me, unless you’re in the tiny circle of people I’d rescue from a burning building. For you, I will bend heaven and earth to make you proud. The rest? I hope you’re happy, but I’m not losing sleep.

I used to be so preoccupied with appearing smart, funny, good, and “together” that I’d half-listen in conversations—so busy managing my self-image that I couldn’t truly hear anyone else. (Listening, it turns out, is a skill that requires real confidence. Who knew?)

Now, I can slow down. I can breathe. I can remember: Nothing is ever as major as it seems. Most things can happen at half the speed. What a revolution.

Being in your 20s is all “Rage, rage against the dying of the light!” And I did my fair share of that. I’m sure I made Dylan Thomas proud. But being closer to 40 is more like, “Somebody PLEASE turn down the lights! I’m overstimulated and electricity is expensive!” I’m kidding, but the truth is that I’ve learned that in a world full of worthwhile battles, energy conservation is key. Rather than spreading myself thin, I’m going deeper into the conversations, topics and relationships that matter most to me.

And I’m circling back to the bands I loved in high school, and pulling my old favorite clothes out of the closet—not because I’m trying to reclaim my youth, but because that girl had great taste. It’s okay to like things just because you like them, no justification required.

Aging isn’t a defeat. It’s not a retreat from the world. It’s an invitation: to settle into yourself, to trust your mind, to enjoy dessert without an inner war, and to wear whatever the hell you want to Aldi.

Here’s to 39—and to anyone else finding their way, year by year, to the wild and wonderful frontiers of getting older.