sobering

As my birthday party wound down and I sat with the handful of friends still lingering over cake, our conversation turned to the experience of turning forty. I noticed a common thread. Each of us, in our own way, admitted: “I can’t believe I’m forty.” It was as if we were all quietly wondering the same thing—how did we get here so fast? Forty always felt like a distant terrain we’d navigate later. And then, suddenly, later was now.

For whatever reason, society deems birthdays ending in zero especially significant. As I approached and recently reached one of these so-called milestones, I began to feel a particular kind of angst. I wondered whether it had any real origin inside me, or if I was unconsciously buying into the collective narrative that I should somehow be more evolved, more accomplished, and more “settled” by now. Or worse, that I was one step closer to death than I was just a year ago. It doesn’t escape me that forty is often viewed as the halfway point of life. And when I really let that sink in, it’s sobering, to put it mildly. To contemplate how much time has already passed sparks a simultaneous wave of grief and urgency. Carpe diem, as they say.

Interestingly, I spent this birthday quite literally sober, despite reluctantly being talked into a bash at a wine bar, joined by 20 dear friends from near and far. Without turning this into a self-righteous message about abstaining from alcohol, I’ll just say this: what sobriety offered me on this occasion was presence. I was hyper-aware of the fluttering anxiety in my stomach, the looping thoughts of “I’m not where I thought I’d be by now” and “I’m behind.” I noticed the voice in my head critiquing the grays in my hair and the loose skin on my arms. And at the same time, I felt the burst of love in my chest as I looked around at all the kindhearted souls who came out to celebrate me. It was overwhelming, in the best and most human of ways.

The day after the festivities, I had one-on-one time with a dear friend who, despite facing the harsh reality of a fast-progressing and likely terminal cancer diagnosis, flew to Miami for my birthday. We sat outside on a bench, watching children play—me with my chocolate ice cream, him with a cold beer. For a moment, he let his guard down and opened up about the gravity of his situation. Teary-eyed, he spoke plainly about the unknown that lies ahead.

None of it surprised me, really. But I was struck by how much I’d been in denial. I hadn’t numbed myself with alcohol, but I’d found other ways to avoid the truth. I’d clung to stories of his strength and focused on all the evidence I had that he was bulletproof. I didn’t want to face what was right in front of me. As we talked about love, life, and what might lie beyond this one, we looked up at the sky and noticed the half-moon: one side bright and luminous, the other cast in shadow. It was the perfect metaphor — a reflection not just of the cosmos, but of our lives. The light and the dark, the beauty and the pain, always coexisting.

And in that moment, something landed. I realized I can’t count on this birthday to mark the halfway point of my life. None of us can. But no matter how much time I have left, I want to stay awake to all of it. The joy and the heartbreak. The certainty and the mystery. The high of the previous night’s party and the sobering truth of my friend’s illness—both reminding me how fragile and precious this all is.

So, here’s to forty. To not knowing how much time we have. To being a grown adult and still yearning to feel like a child. To life, love, cake, and cancer. To the simple moments shared with friends, eating ice cream under the moon. To the quiet recognition that the true milestone is simply being here, alive, awake, and willing to feel and celebrate it all.

Dedicated to my friend—you know who you are.