I've complained all year long about turning forty. Life has dragged me kicking and screaming towards the big 4-0. It stirred up some anger and anxiety issues earlier in the year, and I've struggled with my insecurity about reaching the age where my father was retired and better off financially than I am currently. I felt like I just ran out of time to do things with my life that I wanted to do. You would have thought the way I was treating 40, I was turning 80.
But something happened over this past weekend that I cannot explain. Maybe it's from reading Predictably Irrational by Dan Ariely, maybe it’s from watching Old Dads on Netflix, or maybe I finally entered the final stage of grief, but I've accepted it, and a calm has come over me.
Not only do I feel good about entering my forties, but I feel optimistic. Like this is just a brand-new chapter to evolve and a fresh canvas to begin with. I still have another month to enjoy my thirties, but forty is almost here and it's going to be alright.