Fifty Doesn't Look Like I Thought It Would

Whether you’re still in your thirties and wondering if life ever settles down, or you’ve crossed into your sixties, rolling your eyes at my existential birthday crisis, you’re welcome here.

I was in a new doctor’s office, scrolling my phone and low-key judging the magazine rack, when Metallica's Enter Sandman came on over the speakers.

My first thought: “Either I’m older than I thought or this doctor is freaking cool.”

Probably both.

I figured I’d be ready for 50. I mean, it’s just a number, right?

Except it’s not; it's a mirror, and I wasn't prepared for the reckoning that came with it.

When I was younger, 50 looked like tight perms and sensible shoes, cardigans with decorative brooches, and perfume that smelled like bug spray.

None of that fits.

I've got a motorcycle in the garage
My first tattoo, the prettiest middle finger (not literally) to my past.
A body that's stronger than ever, but always finding new ways to hurt me.
A skincare drawer that could be mistaken for a chemistry lab.

Aging is a scavenger hunt. You wake up with a new pain, and your only prize is learning how to walk around it.

I Don't Feel Fifty, Whatever That Means

I still game when I can. My gaming days go all the way back to the Atari days. Took a break after the Wii (shoutout to those Guitar Hero nights with my daughter), then circled back a few years ago as a fun little distraction.

Now, when time allows, I run squads in Call of Duty and Fortnite, or get oddly satisfied watching fake soap rinse off fake surfaces in a power-washing sim.

This isn’t the version of fifty I expected. But it feels like mine.

The Real Midlife Crisis Is About Unlearning

Everyone talks about reinvention like it’s this glamorous, empowered move. It isn’t. It’s often awkward and quiet and built on the ashes of whatever used to be comfortable.

By this age, you’re “supposed” to have it figured out. Some people do. Some of us are just better at hiding that we don’t.

I tell my daughter all the time: the dirty little secret about grown-ups is that most of us are still winging it.
The difference is we’ve got better instincts...and better excuses.

But what surprised me wasn’t how much I’d learned by fifty. It was how much I had to unlearn.

I stopped trying to keep up and pretending I had the answers. I started making peace with the fact that some things may never feel fully resolved, and that doesn’t mean I’m broken.

It just means I’ve stopped waiting to feel 'ready'.

You might also like The Weight I Still Carry or Beautiful Lies — different versions of starting over.

Starting Over Isn’t Just for Your Twenties

I came from a childhood built on too much, too early.

Married too young to someone who wasn’t right for me in any capacity.
Raised my daughter alone and learned in real time what I'd never settle for again.
Lost people I didn't think I could live without. Got betrayed by people I thought never would.

Then I met Jim. The Balkan Storm.
We celebrate 10 years next month.

Right after we got married, I left a job I’d had for almost fifteen years, packed up everything, and moved states away from everything I knew.

Since then, I’ve rebuilt my life from the ground up.
I started writing for everyone from new grads to Capitol Hill staff.
Helped veterans restart their own lives, work that means more to me than anything a 9-to-5 ever offered.

None of it was handed to me.
It was earned, one terrifying leap at a time.

Want more essays like this? I send new ones out (mostly on Thursdays).

The Audacity of Change

I’ve been a fish out of water most of my life.
I wasn’t the popular girl. I didn’t have a sorority squad at my wedding.
Now I’m a former theater kid raising jocks. Life’s weird, ain't it?

I’m the one in the bleachers surrounded by 30-something parents with monogrammed hoodies and water bottles, hollering at referees like it’s the SEC playoffs.

I don’t blend in, but I still belong.

And then there are the moments where change sneaks up and slaps you.

For example, I used to be queen of the roller coasters. The scarier, the better.

Last year, at a local festival, I boldly bragged about the Gravitron to two very surprised kids. "We used to flip upside down and stick to the walls".

We'd been riding other 'scary' rides that evening together with no issues, and I was very quickly cementing my place as the "cool parent."

Yeah...
Four seconds into Graviron, I had one clear thought:
“Oh dear God. This was a biiiiiig mistake.”

I stumbled out, dizzy, sweating, nauseated, and humbled.

The kids still beg me to ride the “cool” rides with them and think I’m just scared. "This one's not that bad," they say.
But I’m not scared. I’m actually really, really sad.

Sad because this body that used to chase adrenaline now chases ibuprofen.
Sad that some doors close on you without warning, and you don't realize you've crossed through until the handle disappears.

Aging can feel like a betrayal, but I've learned you can grieve what's changed without resenting what's next.

This Is What Momentum Looks Like

I hear a quote in one of my workout playlists: "If you don’t sacrifice for what you want, what you want becomes the sacrifice."

That’s how people end up stuck in lives they don’t even like.

So now, my rules are simple:
Be kind, but keep your boundaries.
Be soft when it matters, strong when it counts.
Be grounded, not rigid. Humble, not invisible.

If you’re thinking it’s too late for you, stop.
You don’t need a milestone or a perfect plan. You need a spark and the guts to honor it.

Start the thing. Wear the outfit. Launch the project.
Let them think you're cringe, and be cringe anyway.

It’s scary to be seen trying.
It’s worse to realize you let someone else's comfort zone shrink your courage.

You’ve made it this far by surviving…
Just imagine what happens when you start living on purpose.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.