I turned fifty last weekend.
When I was young, fifty sounded old, an inconceivable time far into the future. Yet here I am, at a milestone, because so far so good that I’ve made it to this point #halfacentury.
I have been mostly unfazed about turning fifty, and even more so since I had my son Charlie. In my late thirties and early forties, before Charlie was born, I would dread birthdays because each year was a reminder of my declining and dysfunctional fertility.
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When I finally did manage to fall pregnant (at the medically termed geriatric age of 42) and have a baby, birthdays felt different. The loud ticking of the biological clock had been silenced.
Then, a few years after Charlie was born, I went to a funeral of a 26-year-old who had passed away from melanoma. I knew from that day forward that getting old is a privilege, and it’s a belief I hold on to strongly, still to this day.
Yet, here I am, a 50-year-old lady. Middle-aged.