I always thought turning 40 would feel like a line in the sand. A clear before and after. Instead, it feels like arriving. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just quietly, like exhaling after holding tension I didn’t realise I’d been carrying.
This isn’t a reinvention. It’s a return.
My thirties were full. Not always glamorous, not always graceful, but full. There was love and heartbreak. Momentum and burnout. Joy I didn’t see coming and endings I never expected. I let go of people I thought would be there for a lifetime. I left places, habits, timelines and versions of myself that no longer fit. Some exits were quiet. Others were hard-won. All of them made space.
There were moments I felt completely lost. There were moments I felt more myself than I ever had. And somewhere between the two, I built something solid. A self I trust. A life I don’t want to escape from. A future that doesn’t need to follow a script to be meaningful.
I learned that not everything needs to be earned or justified. That softness is a power. That saying no doesn’t require a reason. That being alone and being lonely are not the same thing. That a full calendar doesn’t always mean a full life. That if it costs peace, it’s too expensive.
Most of all, I stopped apologising for wanting more.
Friendship changed too. Some people I thought would be there forever slowly faded out of frame. Life pulled us in different directions, but I learned that that’s ok. Not every connection is meant to last a lifetime, and not every ending needs to be dramatic.
The friendships that stayed became deeper. Fewer, stronger, more real. And then came the ones that arrived later — built not on history but on shared values, timing and truth. These are the friends who meet me where I am now, not where I used to be.
And then, there’s love.
In my thirties, I loved deeply. I held on longer than I should have. I left when it no longer served me. I believed in potential. I also learned that potential is not a promise. That someone can care about you and still not be right for you. That clarity is kinder than hope that drags. That the way someone shows up matters more than what they say. That chemistry doesn’t make up for consistency.
I’ve had beautiful beginnings. I’ve had honest endings. I’ve been ghosted, adored, let down, surprised. I’ve been the one who walked and the one who waited. Every chapter taught me something. I no longer want the kind of love I have to chase, fix or decode. I want the kind that’s steady. Present. Kind. The kind that feels like a deep breath, not a guessing game.
And with that came a little wisdom. The kind that only time gives. So here’s what I know now.
Protect your peace more than your plans.
Stop explaining yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you.
Your intuition isn’t being dramatic. It’s trying to keep you safe.
Some endings are redirections. Some silences are answers.
Don’t settle because you’re tired of waiting. Settle in because it feels right.
Reinvention isn’t the goal. Self-respect is.
Somewhere underneath all of that, something even more personal shifted. Over the last year, I found myself holding tighter to my Jewish identity. Not quietly. Not in passing. Fully.
I felt the weight of it. The pride of it. The responsibility of it. And I stopped taking it for granted. I lit candles on Friday night not because it was tradition, but because it felt necessary. I spoke up even when it was uncomfortable. I stood firm in the face of ignorance and hate. I stopped softening that part of myself to make others more comfortable.
Because holding onto who you are matters. And because pride, when rooted in truth, is a form of strength.
Now, standing at the edge of forty, I feel clear. I know the kind of love I will and will not accept. I know the energy I want around me. I know how to hold myself when no one else is there to do it. I know how to make a home out of the present moment.
This next chapter doesn’t come with rules, timelines or approval. Just me, choosing myself – fully, finally, and with great taste.
