I thought I’d have this sorted by now

It’s the night before my 50th birthday, and here’s what I thought I’d have sorted by now.

I thought I’d be financially sorted. I imagined a world at age 50 where I’d not only be debt free but I’d have plenty of money coming in, savings in the bank, a pension, I probably even thought I’d be mortgage free. I am NONE of the above. In fact my relationship with money has only got worse. That’s not to say I still don’t hope for this to be better, I do, and I hope it will, but by 50? It appears not.

I thought I’d love myself fully. There’s a lot of talk about not giving any f*cks once you’re past a certain age, and 50 is often quoted as being the one. Now although my 4th decade has most definitely been my absolute fave so far, and I definitely care less about others opinions, but do I care so little that I’m entirely happy with who I am? No, I’m not at that place yet.

I thought I’d have nailed the perfect morning routine. Every year from about age 9 to my late teens I would be given a diary for Christmas, and every year I’d write a list of resolutions in the front of it. Without exception it would feature a daily routine that included…waking at 6am, showering before school, flossing daily, doing sit ups, walking the dog, reading x number of pages from a book, writing in my diary, tidying my room, and on and on, you get the gist. I never cracked it for more than a week, and I still haven’t. Over the years my expectations of the perfect early morning ritual have grown to also include writing morning pages, doing yoga, meditating, and to be honest when I do some of these things I feel better but sticking to this every day ongoing, nope and probably never gonna happen.

I thought I’d be at peace with my body. From age 3 until 15(ish) I danced nearly every day. In my very early twenties I was a step aerobics instructor teaching 10 classes a week. In my 40’s I completed a 21 day yoga challenge. I’ve run a half-marathon. I learned to ride a bike age 37, and learned to swim twice, once age 25, once age 39, and let’s not forget I’ve given birth to a child. All in all my body has done some pretty amazing things but am I yet proud of it? I’m sad to say no. I will say that how it looks matters to me far less nowadays, and my ideals have changed from looking a certain way to feeling a certain way. It’s an ongoing journey, and one I’m happy to keep travelling.

I thought I’d know why I was here. As human beings we crave certainty and for me I’ve craved the certainty of knowing my purpose…and never found it. Last year I attended a wonderful talk by author Elizabeth Gilbert and she talked of this quest for purpose. She suggested that we’re all consumed with our purpose’s being big lofty things, but rarely do we consider that they might be incredibly simple things. Like my purpose could have been to distract another human that otherwise would have stepped into the road and been run over. I could have achieved that without knowing it, and still be searching for a purpose I’ve already fulfilled. I’m beginning to see, to believe, that maybe our purpose is ever evolving. That arriving at our purpose isn’t the point, it’s the gathering of knowledge and experiences along the way that matters.

I thought I’d be a published author. Hmm. This is a toughie because although the desire has always been there it’s only in the last decade that I’ve truly listened to my soul and started to take this dream seriously and I’m hopeful that writing will be a big part of the next 5 decades.

I thought I’d be famous. Ok so the definition of this one has changed over the years from being a pop star, to being a dancer, to being an actor, to being a speaker, to being a writer. I’m shamefully still seeking some sort of Instafame and I do, despite my better judgement, still look at the number of likes, comments & shares. I’m not done with this one yet.

I thought I’d feel like a grown up. I’ve been married nearly 20 years. I have a 15 year old daughter. I own two dogs, have a mortgage and run my own business and still I don’t feel like a grown up. This one has surprised me the most because at one point I thought 50 was ancient and so to be on the brink of it and not even feel like an adult yet is quite a surprise. This is one area I’m happy never to sort. I never want to be a grown up, I just thought I did.

I’m sure there’s more things I thought I’d have sorted. Many of which might descend greedily into my brain tomorrow when the big day dawns. One’s that will quietly whisper at me when my husband asks me for the hundredth time if I’m worried about turning 50, and I’ll repeat how not bothered I am. I do believe getting older is a gift. I feel that some of my most exciting times still lay ahead. I’m not obsessed with the odd wrinkle or line, though I’m slightly annoyed at the old lady noises I make when I get up from a chair or out of the car. For me, turning 50 definitely feels good, and despite the above, I’m determined to see and celebrate how far I’ve come, instead of worrying about all I’ve not (yet) achieved.

I’m buoyed by the knowledge I’ve accumulated in the past 50 years. I’m unbelievably grateful for the people I’ve met, loved and laughed with, and for those no longer in my life for everything I learned from them. I love my growing self confidence (late arriving as it is), the increasing strength of my convictions and beliefs, the ways in which my values have solidified.

I’m 50 magnificent years made up of all the words I’ve read, the melodies that have moved my body, the landscapes glimpsed. The steps trodden on sand and stone, through woods and water. I’m made up of 5 decades of laughter, tears and hugs, limbs tangled, lips kissed, hearts broken, hands held. Just imagine what 50 years more could hold.