This is 40.

They tell you 40 is a big year. The over-the-hill year. The year you are supposed to mark with something memorable. A girls’ trip, a destination dinner, a weekend that proves you are still fun and still celebrating. But I am not there.

I remember so clearly when my parents turned 40. At the time, it felt impossibly old. I could not imagine being that age myself. And now here I am. Forty. And if I am being honest, I do not feel phased in the least.

It does not feel like a milestone that needs fanfare. It feels quieter than that. More reflective. More settled. What I feel most is gratitude.

I am healthy. I have an amazing family. And if no one reminded me, or if I did not have to constantly type my birth year into online forms, I might still be convinced I was a decade youmger.

Do you ever walk past a group of twenty somethings and catch yourself thinking, I am basically the same as them? I do that more often than I care to admit. And then I remember that I am not. Not because I cannot wear the same clothes or stay out late or live a little recklessly if I want to. But because I have lived longer.

I have accumulated experiences. Losses that reshaped me. Joys that surprised me. Seasons that tested me and seasons that carried me. I have learned that confidence does not come from being noticed, but from knowing yourself. That peace does not need to announce itself to be real. That less noise often means more clarity.

I am sure someone reading this with twenty more years of life behind them is smiling at the seriousness of a forty year old calling this wisdom. Perspective keeps stretching as we age. But this is where I am today, and it feels honest.

Forty feels good. Less proving. Less performing. More choosing what actually matters.

And maybe that is worth acknowledging, even if it does not come with a party.

So you will find me celebrating 40 at home, with my favorite people and a homemade dinner and my new birthday kitten Boon. I would choose that every time.