Let the Record Show, I Did Not Go Quietly.

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 sitting in a new doctor’s office, first-time visit, scrolling my phone, when Enter Sandman came on over the speakers. My immediate reaction: “Either I’m aging faster than I realized or this doctor is freaking cool.”

Probably both.

I figured I’d be ready for 50. It’s just a number, right? Except it’s not the number that’s hard; it’s the reckoning that comes with it.

I tell my daughter all the time: the dirty little secret about grown-ups is that most of us are still winging it. We’re just older, with slightly better instincts and excuses.

I don’t feel 50…not the version I was told I would be, anyway
I play Fortnite. I wreck people in Call of Duty. I’ve been gaming since Atari. Took a break after the Wii (shoutout to the Guitar Hero years with my daughter), but came back to it a few years ago as a fun timekiller at night.

Now, when the rare moment allows, I squad up with the fam. Sometimes, I wind down with a power-washing sim that scratches a weirdly specific itch in my brain. Those virtual items might be the only thing in this house that stays clean around here for longer than ten minutes.

This is not the version of 50 I expected.

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

Instead, I’ve got:

• A motorcycle in the garage (not mine – yet.)
• My first tattoo, the prettiest middle finger (not literally) to my past.
• A body that's stronger than ever, but somehow also keeps finding new places to hurt. It’s like a fun little scavenger hunt.
• A skincare shelf that looks like a mad scientist lives here...and a plastic surgeon tab open on my browser. Just to match the outside to the struggle on the inside.

By 50, you’re “supposed” to have it figured out, aren't you?
Some of us do. Some of us are still figuring it out in Target parking lots. Either way, I’ve learned.

But what I didn’t expect was how much this chapter would ask me to unlearn, to stop trying to keep up and make peace with not having all the answers. So no, I wasn’t quite ready, but I know I’ll be ok.

Change gradually crept in, through years of steady recalibration. And now, here I am. Not new, just more me than I’ve ever been.

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

I came from a childhood shaped by way too much, way too early.  

Married too young to someone who wasn’t right for me in any capacity.
Raised my daughter as a single mother, learning what I’d never settle for again.
Hit with a stretch of loss and betrayal that honed me in ways comfort never could.

And then? I met him. The Balkan Storm.
We celebrate 10 years next month.  Still learning, still laughing, still grateful we met when we did.

A decade ago, I left a steady job I’d held for nearly 15 years and moved several states away from everything I knew. It’s cold as all hell here, but I’ve never looked back.

Since then, I’ve rebuilt my professional life on my own terms, writing for everyone from new grads to studio execs to Capitol Hill staff.
Most importantly, I get to help veterans start again. That means more to me than any 9-to-5 ever offered.

None of it landed in my lap.
It was built one terrifying leap at a time.

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

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

I looked it up, and it turns out it’s from a romance author of books I’ve never read. Doesn’t matter, it's still true.
That’s how people end up stuck in lives they don’t even like.

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.

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. I was more likely to be backstage than center stage.

Now I’m a former theater kid raising future jocks. Life’s weird, ain't it?

So these days, I’m the one in the bleachers who sticks out like a sore thumb, surrounded by 30-something parents in full-on team merch who treat every game like the freaking Super Bowl.

And while I’m not about to start pretending I care about local rivalries or zone defense...I’m trying. I’m showing up. I don’t yell at the refs (yet). But I have mastered the art of the slow, disappointed head shake. That's progress for me.

I don’t blend in, but I still belong.

If you’re thinking it’s too late for you, stop.
You don’t need a milestone or a perfect plan. You just need a spark and the guts to honor it. Whether you’re 25 or 65, it’s not too late.
You can still surprise yourself. You just have to start.

Growth doesn’t mean pretending nothing’s changed, though. Some changes are subtle, but others slap you right in the face.

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

But then I rode the Gravitron last year at a local festival. I'd been bragging to two very surprised kids who were with us about how we used to flip upside down and stick to the walls. We'd been riding other 'scary' rides that evening 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, nearly puking, and definitely 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.

Some days, aging feels like a silent betrayal.
But I’ve learned you can mourn what’s changed without resenting what’s next.

So yeah, 50’s coming in hot, but despite it all, it feels like momentum.

So show up like you're building a life your future self won’t have to recover from. Let people think you’re “cringe”. Start the YouTube channel. Post the thing. Launch the project, wear the outfit, take the risk.

It’s scary to be seen trying. But it’s worse to realize you let other people’s opinions dictate your courage. You were made for more than their comfort zones.

If 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.