The First 2 Weeks of Being 50
…And what I learned
…Let me set the scene for you
It's January 11th. Yesterday was my 50th. The birthday party is over. The flowers are starting to droop just a little. The candles are in a drawer somewhere. And I wake up to - laundry. A full basket of laundry, looking at me like absolutely nothing has changed.
Because nothing has changed. And also, everything has.
That's the thing nobody tells you about turning 50. The birthday itself? That's the ceremony. It's the day after - the first regular, unremarkable Tuesday of your new decade - that's the real arrival. That's where 50 actually starts to live.
So I did the laundry. And then I did another load. And I thought,okay. So this is it.
Here's what I expected turning 50 to feel like: some kind of internal “aha moment. A moment where everything suddenly fell into place in my head. Maybe a little wisdom-beam from the universe that said, you've earned this, go forth - Yoda style.
Here's what it actually felt like: my daughter’s 21st birthday was the day after my birthday - her birthday was in absolute shambles before noon, she came home in tears saying she hadn't had a good birthday since she was 13, I spent the morning talking her off the ledge - and then she went to a bike festival and had her 21st beer, so all's well that ends well. Right?
Oh, and hubby got his Cologuard test back. Positive. Colonoscopy needed.
And then the birthday girl came home later that night, very much 21 years old, and we had to get her up two flights of stairs and I stood sentry in her room until almost 2 in the morning, catching vomit on the fly and reiterating that “No, I didn’t hate her”.
This was Day 1 of being 50.
Can you relate? Not necessarily that exact chaos - but that feeling of I thought this milestone would look different and instead life just... kept going at its regular, relentless pace?
The thing is, though? I didn't fall apart. I didn't absorb everyone's panic. I just kept moving. Cleaned the baseboards, replaced the vacuum filter (first new one in the entire time I've owned that vacuum, which tells you something), did the laundry, and pulled a batch of rye sourdough cinnamon rolls out of the oven at 7:30pm that tasted like giant fluffy clouds.
I had started those cinnamon rolls that morning before I knew how the day would go. And they finished exactly when I needed them to.
Tell me that's not a metaphor.
The word that kept showing up in those first two weeks - and I mean kept showing up, like it was following me around - was gentle.
I'd been keeping morning pages, which if you haven't tried them, are exactly what they sound like: you wake up in the morning and you write.
You don't curate, you just dump whatever's in your head onto the page and then close the journal and go live your life. I found the perfect journal for it - it’s a small, soft cover book with a single bird on the front with the words “Daily Chirps” written in gold text. Nothing that makes you feel like your thoughts have to be perfectly worded or even spelled right to be perfectly honest.
…And one morning, right there in my own handwriting: one word more than any other keeps coming back up for me. Gentle.
Not hustle. Not reinvention. Not "this is my year." Gentle.
Have you ever had a word find you instead of the other way around?
I'm a Capricorn. My love language is a completed to-do list. So "gentle" was not my first instinct. My first instinct is always to organize, plan, move, produce, check things off. That drive isn't going anywhere - and honestly, I don't want it to. But what I was starting to understand, somewhere around Day Three of being 50, is that productive and abrasive don't have to be the same thing.
I could still move through my day with intention. I could still have a list. But I could also ask myself, before I wrote anything on it: is this a gentle way to spend my day?
That one question changed everything.
Instead of a to-do list that pushed me forward. Tasks that got done, yes - but with the reminder at the bottom: be gentle. Come back to yourself. So every time I crossed something off, I'd see those words again. Like a breadcrumb trail back home.
By Week Two, something was happening.
I was back at work. Life was fully back in motion. Hubby’s health situation was sitting in the background, not demanding to be solved yet, just... present. The household was doing what households do. And I noticed that I wasn't absorbing it all the way I used to.
I'd watch the chaos unfold and feel - neutral. Not numb. Not detached. Not "I don't care." Just... clear. Like I was watching without being swallowed.
Somebody once described this as being the watcher. And I always thought that sounded a little too woo-woo for me. But standing in my daughter's room at midnight, monitoring her breathing, running a load of laundry, noticing that I was the only adult handling it - I wasn't angry. I wasn't even tired about it. I was just observing.
This is how it has been. Here it is again. And here I am.
That's a different relationship with your own life than I've ever had before.
So. Two weeks into 50. Here's my honest report:
The magic didn't come in a flash. It came in a new vacuum filter, a bird-covered journal, cinnamon rolls that didn't over-proof, and a quiet Tuesday night where I chose to be present without disappearing into everyone else's needs.
It came in the word gentle, showing up in my own handwriting like it had been waiting for me to be ready to hear it.
So, with that said; I hope this little summary of the 1st two weeks of being 50 - acts as a reminder to slow down just a bit; loosen your grip on what you expect and listen to some of the things bouncing around in your head. Grab a notebook, or a random piece of paper and start writing down what’s in your head. Somewhere in all that mess - is a clue - possibly just 1 small word - that tells you everything you need right now.
If this resonated, you might like: “Coming Home to Myself”
