it’s finally my turn.
one by one, the dominos have fallen… crossing over into the milestone most of us have been dreading. entrance into the not-so-elite, inevitable club: quinquagenarians.
look it up. it’s actually a thing. sounds kind of cool if you say it out loud. intriguing, rhythmic, alliteration, multi-syllabic, verbal gymnastics. in reality, it’s just a fancy word for 50.
50 years old.
when i was on the other side watching each friend and family member grapple with impending semi-centurion status (no doubt exacerbated by the AARP junk mail that started filling the mailbox shortly around mid-40!), i would reassure them: “you're brilliant, and vibrant, and accomplished, and amazing. you’re blessed. you need to focus on that. because 50 is just a number.”
i meant that earnestly, in my heart of hearts. i could see them for ALL they were - despite the fretting about wrinkles and dreams deterred and roads not taken. nearly everyone i know who has hit that age exudes a special blend of confidence and wisdom, immune to the noise of outside voices, judgment, bluster. not that it’s always easy, with joints creaking or creases forming, the flood of facetunes filling the feeds. but within them, a sense of clarity, of self. and many actually glow, looking way better than they did when we were all boozing, smoking, carbo-overloading and generally living our seemingly invincible 80s and 90s lives.
it’s just a number. i believed those words to be true. and a part of me still does. as i write this, i float above myself and see that i am the person i just described. at 50, i know who i am. i know what’s important to me. i love my tribe—not a sprawling entourage, but a circle: small and strong and true. i have zero patience for drama and toxicity. i eat clean and work out and feel proud that i’ve achieved a level of professional success, can still smash a tennis ball, rock 5 inch heels (i’ll still race you!), and fit into the same size i wore 25 years ago while owning my celia-brand of style.
i still feel the lightness… but with each passing decade, it’s never a constant state. it flickers in and out. it ebbs and flows. happiness and heartache go hand in hand. feels like much more so now. and truthfully—after all these years— at 50 years young, i also feel the weight of 50 years old.
iykyk.
within that “just a number” are so many other numbers that have made deep marks on my heart and soul—shaping my perspective on life, and how to live. if you’ve been on earth for this long, i know you’ve felt and seen and lived this too. triumphant highs and the deepest lows. loss of parents, pets, friends, jobs, health, control, perhaps even hope…
i don’t know whether it’s my marketing brain or just human nature to quantify milestones by the numbers. but even when i’m not consciously keeping a tally, my synapses connect the dots.
two.
the beautiful, incredible humans that i’m proud to call my sons.
the two moms named cecilia, who shined so bright in my life, then passed.
the twins i carried for 26 weeks, before one died in utero.
the times i got raced to the ICU, 10 years apart, for freak, life-threatening health scares.
two socks on my feet, plum colored, with bright teal and pink flowers all over, and the words embroidered across the top of each: “super fucking awesome.” my only view—and hope—as i laid on my back in the hospital bed for seven days, tubes in my kidneys, a post-op j-drain in my abdomen to suction out excess fluids from the incision site, IV needle in my veins, heart monitor on my finger, catheter, and compression stockings alternately squeezing each leg to prevent clots. i couldn’t actually look at any of the wires and tubes connected to me…i didn’t dare because it was just too traumatizing. but i stared at those socks. and the pink toes underneath them. channeling uma from kill bill. one toe at a time. one day at a time. till i got back to me.
two rocks, perfectly round, smooth, plucked from our favorite beach in michigan, that i held and rubbed and, when everyone left my room at night, in the dark, clenched in my hands like amulets, praying to see my happy place again.
forty-two.
the number of holes i counted on my skin from the endless blood draws and IVs—until i stopped counting. 2 years later, some are gone. some look like freckles. and some are permanent coin-shaped reminders. of trauma….and survival.
three.
jobs that elevated my career, inspired me creatively, and expanded my skills, but were also abusive and toxic. through the process, though each painful in a different way, i realized my own value, unleashed my voice, walked through new doors that were opened to me, and resolved to never endure that treatment again.
eight.
since the dumpster fire that began in 2020, with the pandemic and racial strife and polarizing politics, gun violence, climate change and overall shit show that’s become a day-in-life for all of us, the amount of times i’ve gotten into the car, by myself, turned the radio up, and drove and sang and screamed and cried…and actually felt better.
50%.
the times i feel completely and utterly sure that i’m where i am supposed to be. flowing, content, on the right path, fulfilled.
the times i feel alone, sad, lost, tired, in despair, or just plain numb.
zero.
the words i have for my kids, and sometimes even myself, processing a world that is literally coming apart, unraveling at the seams.
the amount of f*cks i give, after all that i’ve been through, lived through, for anyone or anything that doesn’t serve me, fill me up, surround me with joy and positivity.
84,160.
the amount of photos on my phone, as of this writing, where i saw beauty and light in a moment—in the sky, on a plate, at the lake, on the beach, on a page, out my window, on random streets, and corners, in faces, in the mirror—despite all weight.
i still sparkle from the electricity of live music. new adventures. a great story. beautiful art. a blooming orchid. fresh sheets. frenchie snores. a bowl of pasta. a flute of bubbles. a gentle breeze.
i’ve taken risks, been challenged, hit walls, fallen down, and every time, picked myself back up, and grown and learned. i’m stronger that i could ever imagine. and so are you.
social media gives you the highlight reel. but this is the real real.
one.
all we have is this one life. it’s beautiful and hard and unpredictable and messy. it’s twists and turns. laughter and loss. happiness and heaviness. starts and restarts. choose to live the hell out of your life—with purpose and intention. no matter what it looks like from the outside, we’re all going through it. whether you’re zero or fifty or eighty or anywhere in between, it’s up to you. only you. to focus on the things you can control. to let go of the things you can’t. to protect your heart. and fill it with the things that make you truly happy. not surface level—deep in your core. to believe in yourself. it’s the only way to steel yourself against whatever life brings your way.
