Facing 40: Lessons, Losses, and Finding Strength in Life’s Transitions

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This is 40.

A word I haven’t been able to get out of my mind lately—anticipation.

I’ve been anticipating turning 40 for the last couple of years. Honestly? I’ve been dreading it. I built up this looming sense of negative anticipation, as if 40 was some sort of boogeyman that would jump out and yell “Gotcha!” the second I hit that milestone. When the day actually came and went, I realized all that wasted time and energy anticipating something awful never amounted to anything. The day was just… a day.

Was it my way of trying to control something I had absolutely no control over? Maybe. Because if I’m honest, I wish I could slow down time. Hit pause. Go back to being 36, maybe even 30. I find myself wishing for control over so much. Like, wouldn’t it be comforting (and terrifying) to know the exact day you’re going to die? But all of that wishing leads to anticipating, and when my head’s stuck in the “what ifs” of tomorrow, I end up missing what’s right here, right now. ( My oldest is going to be 14 next month!)

So here’s my question for myself (and maybe for you): Does time actually move faster as we get older? Or is it just that we’re constantly anticipating more—hoping, dreading, planning, fearing? Maybe it’s the anticipation itself that makes life feel like it’s speeding up.

I’ve felt like I’ve been climbing this steep mountain since I graduated college—a climb fueled by this relentless drive for success. I always wanted a career, not a life at home as a stay-at-home mom.

Yet, life and finances had other plans. With no family nearby and childcare being… well, you know… basically a second mortgage, it just made sense for me to stay home. And here’s the thing about life’s curveballs—you adjust. You find the strength you didn’t know you had.

Adjust I did. But that drive for success didn’t just disappear—it clung to me like a shadow. And the truth is, I’ve spent much of my 30s tangled in this tug-of-war between ambition and practicality. I wish I could sit here, firmly on the other side of 40, and tell you that I have it all figured out—that turning 40 unlocks some magical wisdom chest.

But really, what I can tell you is this: there’s so much yet to learn. From 30 to 40, I’ve grown in ways I couldn’t have imagined. And I know the next decade will shape me even more, in ways I can’t predict.

Something surprising happened when the big 4-0 hit—something I didn’t see coming. A sense of empowerment. Like, yeah, I’m older, but I’m still me. The fear of the day dissipated, and I was left asking, “What can I look back on and be proud of? What can I look forward to learning?”

Here’s a humbling truth I’ve faced about those years in my 30s. I chased goals like they were oxygen. I reached some big ones, too—my blogging goals, for instance, which felt like the absolute pinnacle of success at the time.

But the thing about a peak is that there’s usually a decline on the other side. I couldn’t hold onto it. The steady trickle of success turning into a string of disappointments was like watching sand slip through my fingers.

I experienced grief repeatedly during COVID—grief over loved ones, grief over the truth of what your childhood was, over life as we knew it, and, strangely, over my career and what I thought success looked like.

This year, I even grieved the dreams I had built over the past decade, as my blogging income dwindled to almost nothing. ( Thanks Google, for your incredible update) I felt like a puddle—flat, stepped on, invisible.

And because I’m absolutely terrible at patience (just ask anyone who knows me), I couldn’t sit still in the waiting. It felt like maybe God had a message for me during this time, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want the stillness because stillness meant sitting with vulnerability. I wanted to prove I still had control.

At 39, I did what I didn’t think I’d do—I applied for jobs. The thought of rejoining the workforce after staying home for a decade terrified me. How would 39-year-old me compete with the younger, fresher versions of me out there? When I landed a marketing position and accepted the offer, I thought that would be enough to squash the doubts. But then reality hit—hard.

The mom guilt of leaving my girls during the summer was soul-crushing. And then the pay. Oh, the pay. Sitting eight hours at a desk, staring at a screen, earning so much less than I did while blogging? That was its own kind of sucker punch.

And yet, I love blogging. I love the chaos of it, the constant evolution, the creativity it demands. Giving it up isn’t on my radar, even if I don’t have that same “Here are my huge blogging goals, watch me crush them!” energy I used to have. Now, it’s simpler. I want to write what I love. To write what the Holy Spirit leads me to. To make as many memories as I can with the people I love.

I don’t know what the next decade holds. I don’t know if I’ll write the next viral post, get back to a comfortable income, or see a major shift in my life. But I do know this—I’m not defined by my income. I’m not defined by what went right or wrong in my 30s. What I’ve learned is this strange, hard-to-articulate truth about time, success, and faith—you don’t have to hold onto all the answers.

Cheers to 40. Cheers to the beauty of life as it is.

Thanks for reading!