Today I turn 50.
For decades, 50 has loomed large. As far as milestones go, it’s a big one. A half-century.
Milestone birthdays are funny: even though you know when exactly you’ll reach them, they still tend to sneak up on you in an unexpected way.
When I was younger — even as “young” as a decade ago — 50 seemed so far away. I imagined that by the time I’d get there, I’d be in a completely different life from wherever I was in that moment.
Fifty seemed like it would be the end.
Perhaps I’d be married and be well-established in a career. I’d have “figured everything out.”
Today, as I stand mark this milestone of 50, it’s more clear than ever that the “myth of arrival” is just that — a myth.
And I am grateful for that.
It relieves me the weight of expectations for having all the answers — or any.
There’s a lot of pressure to find meaning in every milestone. But there’s no inherent meaning in numbers.
Just like the body doesn’t know the weight on the bar or the time on the clock, it doesn’t know an age.
The body knows stimulus, sleep, and experience.
Perhaps this is a signal of being 50, but today I don’t feel the pressure to infuse this moment with some greater meaning or symbolism.
There’s no absolute truth of 50. I don’t expect any great meaning or revelation to come down from heaven.
Standing on this side of 50, it doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a place for a new beginning. A place to restart with the benefit of knowing who I am and what I value.
50 feels like a place to embrace my curiosity; to relish in not needing to have the answers, knowing that I have the inner resources and life experience to navigate whatever comes my way.
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