I am officially two weeks away from turning fifty, and I feel the weight of it—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes you feel like you are headed into the third act of your life. Mortality has planted a seed in my brain, and it’s beginning to take root in ways that feel helpful and inviting.

Time is the great equalizer in our lives. Obviously, the hand we are dealt is out of our control. But we’re all given the same twenty-four hours, the same three hundred and sixty-five days to work through it, to make something of our lives. How we experience time is primarily up to us, and now that there is less and less of it, I feel a lot more liberty and freedom.

Last year, on my birthday, I went to lunch with one of my favorite friends, and it ended in a big row. I was so mad that I spent part of the afternoon crying. On my birthday! It felt like a very teenage thing to do, except I had just turned forty-nine, and for the first time, I was unable to pull myself together. It came on like an angry tsunami and was unrelenting until I was out of tears. 

This would be the first of several big cries in what I am now calling the Year of Tears. I cried because I lost my uterus. I cried in the days after surgery because of the pain. I cried because my body changed, and I didn’t recognize it. I cried because I was worried. I cried because I was tired like I had never been tired. I give myself a resounding A+ for crying. I feel rather proud of myself for letting me feel all these terrible things! I usually stuff feelings into little boxes for later consumption. But not this year.

I thought after birthday lunch, it would be the end of my friendship with this favorite person in my life, but it wasn’t. We would have more quarrels later in the year until it got too hard. Then, one day, there was nothing else left to say or do, and it was over. That’s sometimes how things end. Not because you want them to, but because you reach a fork in the road, and one of you decides to go left while the other goes right. 

It is not dissimilar to my uterus. I didn’t want to lose that old broad either, and I tried every possible intervention to keep her around. Months passed, with IV drips and medications that made me ill. There was no reprieve. I simply wasn’t ready to give her up and suffered for over a year until there was no other option but to let go. It wasn’t time until it was time.

I have reflected on both of these situations over the past month. At this point, the story arcs and lessons are essentially the same. None of this is rocket science. It’s tough to let things go. Sometimes, you try hard to fix things you know will end just because you want to know you did everything you could. It’s hard to make a decision when you don’t know what is going to happen. We do irrational things when we’re afraid. I could go on and on. It hardly feels worth mentioning. 

What is remarkable about The Year of Tears is that I let myself make huge mistakes—the same mistakes over and over again, even! I went out of my comfort zone with my feelings. I let people take care of me while I was on the floor. I admitted I had some problems and sought help to address them. I showed myself grace and compassion for being human. 

And in turn, grace and compassion found me. So much of it!

After I wrote the above text, I went back and read my Chapter 49 post, which was published on the morning of my birthday last year. I don’t remember writing it, but somehow, it all feels like a gift to present me:

Sorrow can take you down but can also act as a catalyst and spark for good and necessary changes. In my nearly fifty years of living, I have come to the conclusion there is nothing more corrosive to your mental well-being than unexpressed emotions. Nowadays, I try really hard to say what I want to say at the exact time I want to say it. When you love someone, you should tell that person. When you’re mad, say it. When you’re hurt, be vulnerable. When you need something, ask for it.

As much as you wish it to be true, people cannot read your mind – you have to help them and help yourself. You are the captain of your ship, after all, and the other people onboard are looking to you for direction.

I love aging. I hope you do too. It’s so wonderful and I feel lucky to be alive. I just wish time would slow a little. There’s never enough time. But the alchemy that comes with knowing what is important and not giving as much shit about what people think gives me a sense of freedom I didn’t use to have. It helps me to be brave (and a little naughty from time to time).

I don’t have a lot of predictions about the year ahead. No grand declarations. No witty insights. This year, I am going to let life unfold as it will and hold the hands around me tightly as we walk forward into the future together.

I don’t have better words to wrap up the year. This sums it all up just fine.

Thank you to all my dear friends (and readers) who listened and picked me up off the floor. Relying on others and letting myself be loved was a big deal for me in Chapter 49. It was very scary at first, but it didn’t kill me. Onward to Chapter 50.

Love,

Giyen