I turn 40 in a few months.
That sentence feels almost surreal to write—not because I dread it, but because I hold it with a kind of reverence. There’s a quiet weight to it. A sacredness. A sense that I’m arriving—not to a finish line, but to a fuller, deeper version of myself.
In many ways, this chapter feels like coming home.
It’s not about reinvention or dramatic change. It’s about integration. About owning every part of who I’ve been, who I’ve become, and who I’m still unfolding into.
I feel it in my body—strong, capable, and softened by time. I feel it in my mind—clearer than ever on what matters. I feel it in my soul—anchored in faith and a peace I didn’t know in my younger years.
I’ve spent enough seasons bending myself to fit into spaces that were too small. I’ve done the hard work of unlearning and relearning, setting boundaries where there once were none, forgiving myself for mistakes that taught me more than any success ever could. And now? I’m standing taller—rooted in truth, with hands open for what’s next.
There’s a confidence that comes not from having it all figured out, but from knowing you can trust yourself to keep showing up—especially on the days when things feel uncertain. Confidence in speaking the truth kindly, in resting without guilt, in choosing presence over perfection.
I’ve become unapologetically present for my children. Not just physically there, but emotionally available—willing to pause, to listen, to soak in the fleeting magic of these everyday moments. Because I know how fast it all goes. And I know what it means to not take time for granted.
This isn’t to say life is easy or smooth. It’s not. There are still hard days, still questions I sit with, still edges that ask for softening. But I meet them now with gentleness, not resistance. I’ve learned to let go of the need to have every answer and instead lean into what is here, now—with gratitude.
So as 40 approaches, I don’t feel over the hill. I feel on the rise!
I feel more whole than I’ve ever been. I feel joy, not just in the highs, but in the ordinary rhythms of life—the morning light, the quiet prayers, the deep conversations, the giggles of my children that remind me what really matters.
I don’t want to miss this. Any of it. Not the messy parts or the mundane or the miraculous. Because it’s all part of becoming!
And if you’re walking this path too, or getting close to it, I hope you know—you’re not alone. There’s beauty in every season, and there’s such strength in choosing to live it fully!
We are not aging—we are becoming. And what a gift it is.
