A snatched conversation I had more than 17 years ago has stayed with me. It wasn’t a deep and meaningful with a friend, nor a piece of advice. It was actually with a stranger, on a netball court, in the middle of a match.
I was 25 at the time and my opponent was celebrating her 40th birthday. She exuded a relaxed glow. I had to ask her how she felt – unable to imagine ever hitting that milestone. It seemed so far in the future to me.
‘I’m so excited to reach my 40s,’ she told me. ‘I finally feel that I’ve accepted who I am and I’m happy with myself.’ The gist was: your 20s are blighted by insecurity; in your 30s, you lament the fun of the previous decade; but then you find yourself in your 40s.
It resonated and I clung to it. I recognised the agony of my 20s, dominated by the pursuit of a partner one fumbling one-night stand at a time. It was an incredibly lonely time despite my crammed diary and hectic career as a journalist.
My 30s were a blur. I got married to my boyfriend, whom I’d met in my late 20s, had twins born prematurely, lost my mum to breast cancer, had a third child, and we all moved from London to Haslemere in Surrey, where I knew no one. Then I began the journey of raising an autistic child.
The tantalising promise of my 40s always provided solace. It was a light in the fog that grew bigger and brighter. By 40, surely I would have nailed the work/life, work/parent juggle. I would be in control.
It didn’t quite pan out like that.
The month that I turned 40, my dad got married again. I had wrongly assumed I could handle the day with poise and dignity. Instead, I wore the stony face of a sullen teenager behind a self-erected forcefield of hostility. I am still sorely disappointed in myself for being unable to take my heart off my sleeve and tuck it in my pocket.
Six months later, in a bid to finally lose my baby weight, I hired a personal-trainer-cum-life-coach. Through a strict plant-based regime, I lost two stone during the first Covid-19 lockdown – finally, I was nailing my 40s, I thought.
But life-coaching sessions over Zoom felt too personal and probing. She wanted to tackle self-worth and loss, and I wasn’t ready, so it fell by the wayside.
Then, one Friday afternoon last summer came the turning point. After pulling another all-nighter trying to meet a work deadline, I was making home-made fish and chips for the children and their friends.
Having coated the cod in breadcrumbs, I was heating a pan of oil when my youngest needed help on the toilet. When I returned, the kitchen was clouded with thick grey smoke. Flames encased the oven, licking the back wall.
The fire brigade came and we were all fine, thank goodness, but the incident confirmed something.
I had been expecting all the pieces of my life jigsaw to finally tessellate. Instead, I’ve realised that it hasn’t; it probably never will. I’m still hurtling down the hill every morning in a mess of scooters and PE bags.
It’s not unknown for me to reach my house and find keys locked inside or the front door left wide open, or get the wrong train, or get hopelessly lost on a run in the dark. It’s all indicative of the mental load that I – we – carry.
Forget exams and the angst of my 20s; I have never felt as much pressure as I have in my 40s – to be a good mum, a good wife, a good daughter, to be an active part of the school and local community, to reach the peak of my career and to be thinner and fitter than ever before. And then there’s the pressure of social media.
However, by simply identifying that gulf between the expectations and the reality, I’ve come to recognise that I am the only one who can relieve the pressure. I also need to let go of the younger me on that netball court discussing the future 17 years ago.
She had no idea about how challenging life would continue to be, but equally no idea of the joy my children bring and the happy memories I’ve made along the way. I just hope she wouldn’t be too disappointed by how it all unfolded and the person she became.
