Turning 40: Real talk about aging with grace

Earlier this month, my friend and fellow writer Melissa Kutsche shared an interview I wrote for her FORTY-something Substack. FORTY-something is a fantastic collection of women’s voices contending with the changes we experience at midlife. Here’s an excerpt from that conversation:

When you were younger, what did you associate with the age of 40? How has reality been similar to or different from those ideas and expectations?

When I was a girl, 40 seemed far away, like a country I didn’t want to visit. I associated the age with low-maintenance “Mom haircuts,” boatloads of bills and raising children. Also, black balloons and those “Over the hill” signs that were ubiquitous in the 90s. I noticed women in their forties taking care of everything from church potlucks to birthday parties while managing full careers and households. They were busy and I revered them. I did not envy them; I wanted to remain carefree.

In the summer, when my family visited the pool, I never understood why my mother—who was in her forties—chose to stay on the deck and read her novel while my brother and I rode waterslides with our dad. Now I get it! Caretaking is all-consuming, and Mom needed her rest.

Even though much has changed since the 90s, I still see forty-something women around me deftly juggling their varied roles and responsibilities, albeit with different outfits and haircuts.

At 40, I’m time rich in a way I wasn’t when I worked full-time with my first child in daycare. The birth of my second son, five years after my first, shifted my priorities. Though I loved working in journalism, I craved more time with my children. My husband and I made some financial sacrifices so I could resign and focus on motherhood and writing.

Playground visits, being present at school drop-off and pickup, writing in a coffee shop during preschool, Lego-building and reading children’s books are my midlife reality. Honestly, I love it. Motherhood awakened me to the holiness woven into little moments with little people.

It’s not all picture-perfect. Being my kids’ primary caregiver is the hardest, messiest job I’ve ever had. Even when you’re doing what’s right (say, setting a boundary) it might feel wrong (there’s whining, or worse, tantrums). Still—and I believe this at my core—raising small people with great kindness matters, more than we can fully comprehend.

How did you feel about turning 40?

I joined the 40 club in December and I have mixed feelings about it.

On the one hand, I’m anxious. The number of Instagram ads I receive for products to help me “manage my wrinkles” is staggering. When I look in the mirror, I see crinkles around my eyes and deepening laugh lines. This is a problem I need to address, I think. Upon further reflection, I ask myself: Is my aging skin a problem? Or, is the problem actually the story marketers want me to believe—that women with wrinkles aren’t beautiful?

To be clear, I’m not judging women for the skincare services we employ. Mainly, I’m frustrated that the beauty industry fosters insecurity in women, distracting us from greater issues that need our attention, such as gender-based wage discrimination.

Additionally, I’m worried about upcoming changes I’ll face—perimenopause, menopause, and the decline of my parents’ health as well as my own. An optometrist once told me that 40 is the decade when everyone begins needing glasses.

On the other hand, I’m quite hopeful about this decade. A former boss once told me that she felt her most confident entering her forties, and now that I’ve reached this milestone, I agree. As a young woman, I struggled with disordered eating, perfectionism and people-pleasing. I have so much compassion for my younger selves—the college grad who was obsessed with running, the newlywed with an intense job and stress-eating habit, the new mom who struggled with guilt—all women who strived to prove their worth.

Nowadays, I feel more at home in my body, mind and soul than before, and I attribute this to years of therapy and a mature faith. Women especially receive messages about all we need to “fix” in our bodies. I still get tripped up by this. Yet, the older I get, the more I recognize these messages as the enemy at work. On my best days, I root myself in the words of the Psalmist, trusting that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made.” There’s an ease of living that comes from believing your worth is inherent.

A new pair of glasses may be in my future. I remain optimistic, because turning 40 has given me lenses for what matters most. In my case, that’s answering my callings to care for my kids and to put loving words into the world. And to spread kindness, always kindness.

What, if any, changes have you noticed as you’ve approached this age/stage of life?

I’m coming out of early motherhood, a physically intense and demanding season, and feeling freer and lighter than I did in my thirties. I do not plan to carry any more babies and I’m done breastfeeding. Most of the time, I don’t have kids clinging to me. This new season is thrilling, like the first spring day you no longer need your heavy jacket.

I also feel bolder. … Read the rest of the interview here.

P.S., If you enjoyed this post, you may also like my monthly(ish) Substack, Nourish. Browse past issues and subscribe here.

Celebrating his story

I’ve been writing about him since he was born, nine years ago. Jack arrived in January, quiet as snow.

And by that I mean, I cried for him under the harsh lights of the OR before he ever cried for me. Time slowed to a drip — though it must have been a minute — before Jack’s lungs were cleared and he found his voice, leaving me wordless.

Since then, he’s stunned me at every turn with his strong will, race car brain and active spirit. He’s the boy who made me a mother, and his life inspired me to pick up the pen and tell the truth about motherhood. I wrote because I needed to make sense of this wild, wonderful, challenging calling. I am still making sense of it, years later, still being changed by it. Nowadays, our stories intersect less and less. I know this is for the best, given his growing independence.

But because it’s his birthday, and it’s tradition, here’s what I know is true about Jack:

He’s brave. Being the new kid in third grade isn’t easy, but he’s handled the transition with a lot of grace.

He’s artsy, doodling in the margins of his schoolwork, reading any graphic novel he can procure, dreaming up games and writing his own mini comics.

He’s playful. This winter, he’s into Roblox and board games. Once the weather turns, we’ll have baseball, soccer and bike-riding back.

He’s a good big brother, mentoring Adam and engaging with him, even though they both get on each other’s nerves.

He’s kind. Though he misses his buddies from Queens, he’s fostered warm relationships with his classmates. His favorite thing is making them laugh.

Snow’s falling as I write this tribute, which seems fitting. Jack, usually talkative, is silent, reading Adventure Time. He glances up at me when he turns the page. I set down my pen and study him — my wonder boy who braved a big move and has kept on laughing, learning and growing. Bedtime awaits but I savor the moment.

Happy birthday, Jack. I can’t wait to see what happens next in your stunning story.

Chapter 39

There are years that test us, and years that embrace us. I’m grateful that my 39th year has been the latter. In lots of little ways I’ve felt held —

in the abundance of cherry tomatoes from our new garden;
my first glimpse of stars from our backyard in the suburbs;
each time Jay and I drop our boys off with my parents;
through “Hellos” and connections with new neighbors;
sweet messages and meetups with old friends from Chicago;
a perfect latte from a local coffee shop;
by the words of writers and musicians who move me;
walking Miami beach in deep talks with my college girlfriends;
date nights with Jay, especially to see theater or live music;
prayers sent out by family and friends;
when my boys ask for lullabies or games of catch;
and capturing it all on the page, writing. Always writing.

In my calls to write and mother, I spent the bulk of the year planting seeds and nurturing unseen growth. From potty training to helping the boys acclimate to new schools, we’ve conquered several transitions. Freelance projects have come and gone, I managed to keep my Substack alive in the midst of our move. I set aside one manuscript (for now) and started writing another. The work of raising kind humans and putting warm words into the world feels more urgent than ever. 

Selling our Chicago home in 2024 was a real trust fall with God. I’m grateful our family landed in such a beautiful house and community this past August. Starting over socially hasn’t been easy. Once a week, I remind myself of a dear friend’s advice to be “the very best version of myself,” trusting that, with time, I’ll cultivate great relationships here.

Today, on my 40th birthday, I’m more at home in myself than I’ve ever felt before. This confidence was hard won; at 38, I experienced a dark night of the soul from which I’m still healing. A commitment to caring for my physical and mental health, plus gaining a greater understanding of how my mind works, has been transformative. God’s grace was evident in the ones whose love carried me when I most needed it.

If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d hug her and whisper, “You are stronger than you think you are. Trust yourself. Believe in your goodness.”

What I love about Halloween

For one night, 
this country looks different…

Pumpkins deck doorways,
skeletons adorn front yards,
orange lights glow.

Little princesses, ninjas,
sports stars and singers parade 
the sidewalks, parents in tow.

We open our doors,
greet our neighbors’ children,
offer them Twizzlers and Twix,
Snickers and Sour Patch Kids,
pretzels, popcorn, fruit snacks and more.

We say, “Wow, look at that costume!”
“Happy Halloween!”
“Here, have a treat!’

What we mean is,
*I see you.*
*You are welcome here.*
*Take and eat.*

This is a night when 
children are cherished.

And I wonder, 
what would happen if we 
held on to our Halloween spirit?

How would the world change 
if we opened our doors 
— and shared — more often?

The view from here

For a decent view of the sunset, I used to climb stairs to the Metra stop in my old neighborhood. At one end of the railroad tracks, Chicago’s skyline loomed; at the other, the suburbs beckoned. Facing west, I’d watch the sky burst with magenta, orange, lavender.

Today I can drive a few blocks west for a clear view of the horizon. Farmland stretches for miles, bookended by subdivisions. The sun is a shiny coin hovering above golden cornfields, casting light over the playground where my sons are climbing. I glance around, curious if anyone else notices the miracle unfolding before us.

A month has passed since my family moved into our dream home in the western suburbs. Our kitchen and rooms are set up. Artwork needs to be hung; some furniture will have to be purchased. Jay and I are still unpacking and searching for our Halloween decorations. Our kids are riding their bikes to the elementary school. We’re learning new names and faces, new routes and routines. Every day, I wake up incredibly grateful for the life we chose, and the house we live in.

Earlier this summer, when our house search was going poorly, and the dream we’d worked a year to pursue seemed to be slipping from our grasp, I struggled to sleep at night. We walked away from bidding wars, lost one, balked at prices. The question of where we’d live haunted me.

This evening, I stand at the edge of the playground and watch the world turn, watch color flame and fade while my boys run around. Children’s chatter rises and falls like a tide. Fall has arrived, but the air is warm.

Although the question of home has been answered, new questions arise: How will I create a home? What will I do here? Who will I become?

Tangerine, yellow and pink bleed across a vast blue canvas. My body feels settled, and at peace. More than ever, I’m less concerned with the future and more interested in leading a quiet life, being kind to everyone I meet. Living in uncertainty taught me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I can, as Rilke wrote, “live the questions.”

Finally, the sun dips below the horizon and it’s time to collect my children. The view from here is stunning, I think. The view from here is changing me.

Wishes

I wish that I was younger
and I wish I wasn’t so concerned about
the passage of time
seeing lines in my reflection,
aging parents, taller kids

I wish that I was richer
and I wish I wasn’t bothered by
the cost of eggs and our medical bills,
how we’ll afford to send our children
to college, how to pay for a new home

I wish our government was kinder
and I wish there was
a crystal ball I could use to predict
how to preserve freedom, peace
and justice for us all

I can’t wish away the hunger
I can’t wish away the hate
But I can name what’s broken
I call for change
and ask myself what I can give
to ease my neighbors’ pain

I wish that I was braver
And I wish I could give voice
to every injustice
that I witness and have experienced
as a mother
as a woman
as a girl

I wish I was a better Christian
and wife and mom
the kind of person who doesn’t
use sharp words with the ones I love the most
I wish I could sand my rough edges
give them the softest version
of my heart

All of these wishes
I keep them hidden
Will any come true?
All of these wishes
I hope God hears them
God, make me new

// Poem inspired by “Wishes,” a song by Tiny Habits

To mother

“What would you have liked to know before becoming a mom?” a friend asked recently. 

“Wow, good question,” I laughed. When I was pregnant, the moms in my circle offered all sorts of sage advice, yet, ultimately, I needed to figure out motherhood for myself. 

The first time I held my baby, we were in the NICU. I remember looking into his blue eyes, feeling his weight and experiencing sheer joy — and terror. The nurses had left. Now I was responsible for his well being. Would I be up to the task?

Even today, I wonder what I’d say to an expectant mother. How do you describe the toughest, most beautiful job in the world?

Is it like being a nurse, caring for needy patients? Or more like a teacher, presenting lessons and encouraging budding learners?

At times, a short order cook. A cheerleader. Housekeeper. Zookeeper! Captain of the ship. 

Perhaps motherhood is like being a writer, nurturing wild words into stories that stir the soul. You spend countless, invisible hours putting everything you have into your work — then you revise, leaning into whatever the piece wants to become. And here’s the kicker: You can only steward your stories for so long until they’re ready to be set free, with a life of their own.

Motherhood is as impossible to contain as the weather. It’s sunshine and storms. Clear skies and blizzards. Rainbows, too. 

I don’t think anyone can fully prepare you for the cataclysmic identity shift of motherhood. The call to mother will stretch you beyond your capacity. You will embody love. You will make mistakes. You will know sweetness beyond understanding. You’re bonded forever and compelled to endure a perpetual state of letting go. And when you feel as if you can no longer hold it all, grace will carry you through. 

What did I know of motherhood when I was young? What do I know now? How do you describe a metamorphosis of the heart?

On love

Love plays endless games of chase. Love beams at you when you learn something new. Love accompanies you and uses his phone to capture the golden moment. 

Love holds your hand before the surgery, prays for you in the lobby and sits at your bedside after it’s over.

Love offers her coat when she sees you shivering.

Love laughs with you, never at you. Love lets you cry as long as you need to. Love never judges; love builds you up with words of encouragement. Love laments with you, cheers for you and speaks well of you, even when you’re not in the room.

Love asks, Would you like some coffee? and What do you want for dinner? plus How are you doing, really? Love nods his head and listens quietly. 

Love schedules haircuts, orders groceries, plans playdates and volunteers in your school. Love notices when you’ve outgrown your boots and orders new ones so you can go sledding. Love takes out the garbage and does your taxes. Love sits in the stands at your baseball game and in the audience at your orchestra concert. Love watches you shine and applauds wildly. 

Love rises in the dark to feed you until you’re content, love changes your diaper, love rocks you and sets you gently in your crib, love sings you to sleep then collapses in bed only to wake hours later to care for you.

Love picks you a dandelion because “You’re the very best Mommy.” Love requests one more story, one more push on the swing, one more cookie. Love makes a valentine for you. Love showers you with hugs and kisses.

Love waits at the door for you, never rushing or nagging. Love lets you take your time. When you’re ready, love opens the door and walks hand in hand with you into the great unknown.

This is three

You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge. 

You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil. 

You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate. 

You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.

You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker. 

Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories. 

Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.”  Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it. 

At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”

Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.

“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”

You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom. 

I want to remember you like this

Immersed in the world of Dogman,
our dog curled against your chest,
your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow,
one leg dangling off the leather couch,
and laughter bubbling out of your mouth.
What I like most about you now is that
when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.

photo credit: Rachel Liv Photography

I want to remember you like this, too:
Handsome in your chambray shirt,
standing tall with a genuine grin,
your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders.
Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo
— you are his nemesis and his idol —
still, you keep answering the call to lead
and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love).
I am awed by your nurturing spirit.

I need to remember you like this:
Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon,
pointing to something unknown.
Was it the waves breaking?
The impossibly blue sky?
All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea
you asked us all summer when we could go,
and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy,
but you got your wish.

After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan,
your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached
the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining,
you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby
(a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild),
you even came back to me the first time I called.

One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones
your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth
to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home
and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight —
so ebullient, so bright.

This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.