Heidi Stevens: A thank you note to my 40s, which are now in the rearview mirror

This is a thank you note to my 40s, which I just left behind.

My 30s gave me my children. My 40s gave me the setbacks and screwups and strength and soul-searching to be worthy of them.

My 30s gave me some of my closest friends. My 40s gave me the chance to lean on them and the privilege of being leaned on by them. Some of us (me) took a while to open up about the parts of our lives we’re not proud of, the parts we didn’t plan for, the parts we need help with. Once we (I) learned how to really talk, it was a gift to have a circle of friends there to listen.

My 30s made me tired. My 40s made me realize no one is going to schedule rest breaks for you. You have to schedule rest breaks for you.

My 40s taught me to look up. I spent my 20s with my head down, working. I spent my 30s with my head down, parenting. (And working.) Not in a martyr way. It has been my greatest privilege to do both, and I knew that then and I know it even more now. But I was never great at balance. I was afraid to pause and look up. I didn’t know how to pause and look up. I thought something terrible would happen if I paused to look up.

In my 40s, I learned to pause and look up. It’s wonderful, in that it truly, actually fills you with wonder. You look up and see the sun and the stars and the moon and birds and clouds and skyscrapers and planes and you remember how tiny you are and how gorgeous it all is and how unlikely it is that things made of steel can be up in the air and yet, what do you know, they are. You think: Wow. Humans really are brilliant. Maybe one day I’ll understand physics.

In my 40s, I ran a marathon. This was a big deal to me because in my 30s I had meningitis that damaged my heart. And in my mid-40s I had COVID-19 that damaged my heart even more. And running a marathon seemed unlikely.

But I learned (from all that looking up) that unlikely is different from impossible. So I trained for the Chicago Marathon and met a bunch of people who run faster than I do and a bunch of people who had already run a bunch of marathons and some people who would, in fact, run another marathon a few weeks after running Chicago. And still they were so kind to me. And still they seemed to immediately understand that my marathon wasn’t about proving something to them. It was about proving something to me.

My 40s taught me to start proving things to me.

Not in a selfish way, I hope. Although I know I have been selfish at times. In a way, I hope, that recognizes none of this is promised, not a single day, and none of it should be taken lightly, not a single moment. And if you want a life that feels true and purposeful and healthy and whole, you better start figuring out what true, purposeful, healthy and whole look like and feel like to you. Not to your parents. Not to your supervisor. Not to your friends. Not to Facebook. Not to the ghosts you carry around from childhood or your 20s or that terrible year in middle school—the ones who tell you you’re not worthy of more, you’re not cut out for more, you wouldn’t know what to do with more, you’re kind of a jerk for wanting more.

My 40s taught me to keep starting over, as many times as I need to. Starting over is a gift.

In my 40s, I got divorced. For the second time. In my 40s, I moved my kids to a new home. For the third time. In my 40s, I moved my daughter into college. For the first time. In my 40s, I drove home from moving her into college, by myself, for 12 hours, through mountains and farmland, past rest stops and billboards, in daylight, at dusk, at nighttime. That’s not what I pictured. That is what I chose.

And all along the way I kept thinking: I’m by myself, but I’m not alone. I have everyone with me who helped me and sustained me and loved me and hurt me and made me laugh and made me furious and made me find the courage to stop listening to ghosts and start listening to something kinder and more interesting. Friends. Good music. My kids. Myself.

I’m grateful I made it to 40, all the way through my 40s. I’m grateful I get to see 50. I'm grateful for second chances and starting over, a tiny bit smarter—or at least more aware of all I still have to learn—every morning. Every sunrise.