Once upon a time…
In her twenties, she thought she was skint. Thought she was tired, thought she was busy. Rushing here, rushing there, scraping together money for lunch, petrol and a Blockbuster’s DVD with a bottle of cheap plonk on a Friday night.
Back then, “tired” meant staying out too late on a Friday. Time was her own, she could spend a whole Saturday wandering shops not buying anything, reading shite magazines and binge-watching films without interruption. Life felt wide open, like a blank page waiting for her to scribble something bold across it.
Fast forward twenty years, and the landscape of life looks entirely different. Fuller, louder, and infinitely more structured (kind of, sometimes). Now in her forties, she wakes up before the sun and clocks up her 10 thousand steps walking around the landing, bedroom to bedroom, rousing the troops. Someone needs a packed lunch, someone needs their PE kit and the girl has decided to beat the shit out of the little one. Her mornings are a choreography of chaos, pancakes, reminders, shouting, cursing and guilt ridden hugs at the school gate.
Then she switches gears into her professional world. Somewhere she gets to pretend she’s a capable woman. Able to interact with real people, adults, those who can wipe their own arse, sort of. A career that demands focus, creativity, and the ability to function on three hours sleep and a gallon of tea. She juggles meetings, deadlines, and the constant balancing act of being present both at work and at home. Her twenties taught her ambition; her forties taught her endurance like nothing before.
But here’s the twist: despite the chaos, despite the constant need to do a food shop, despite the lack of sleep and time, she wouldn’t swap it for her 20s, not really. Back then, she questioned everything, her choices, her path, her worth. Now, she knows herself (sort of), but still questions what it’s all for at least six times daily, usually when in traffic. But here’s the big one, she’s learned to say no without guilt, to be her own voice, to prioritise what matters, and to let go of the rest. She’s discovered that strength doesn’t always roar; sometimes it whispers, “Keep going.”
Her kids have stretched her patience in ways she never imagined, her schedule, her laundry pile and the requirement to constantly clean the loo. But she wouldn’t trade it. Life in her forties isn’t easier than life in her twenties—it’s richer (not literately, obvs). It’s a tapestry woven with endless responsibility, chaos, exhaustion, and purpose (yay for me). She may not have the spontaneity she once did or the ability to relax, not clean and walk past a pile of washing, but she has something deeper: a life with three kids at the centre and she kind of like it.