The following story is excerpted from:
A Cup of Comfort for Women

I’m turning forty, soon. And, as with other milestones in life, I feel the need to write about it. How do I feel? Well, I don’t feel forty, that’s the first thing. I feel good. Great, in fact. So, the number doesn’t bother me. What does, is the decade that will surely follow. With every other decade I’ve had a distinct set of goals, things I felt I needed to accomplish in order to move on to the next phase of my life. Not so with my forties. So that leaves me feeling . . . uncertain. I’ve never not had something to go after. And that makes me something I’m not entirely familiar with: comfortable.

The twenties were, indeed, roaring for me. I didn’t so much as bat an eye when I left nineteen behind (no doubt in a smoky bar on my college campus). I felt as if I had ten more years to party. As it turned out, I did. After college, the smoky bar turned into a beach as I took the growing-up show on the road and ended up in Southern California. What a ball I had discovering the beginning of adulthood. I worked at launching my career in advertising and worked harder still at packing the most fun I could into life. Birthdays came and went, and I could not have cared less.

When I looked in the mirror and saw a thirty-year-old, things got a little stickier. Then, I realized that time was of the essence if I was going to have everything I ever wanted: marriage, children, someone to make goofy cookies with. Southern California was everything I needed it to be as a young woman, but if I was going to accomplish my lifelong dreams, I’d better head back to the heartland. In the Midwest, chances were better that men not only would commit to a lunch date the following week, but might go for much more.

I was right. My thirties were very prolific. I met, lived with, married, and procreated—twice, in fact—with my wonderful husband. Now, I have my six-year-old marriage, four-year-old son, and two-year-old daughter to help me blow out forty candles. Whew (personal peeve—I loathe exclamation marks).

Now what? If I were able to make a wish and to not be the introspective freak that I am, I’d wish to remain on this path I’ve made for myself. I’d like my marriage to remain intact, maybe even breathe some life back into it now that I’m not a walking wet nurse. I’d like my children to continue to grow and amaze me with their fresh-faced enthusiasm. I’d like to continue juggling my friendships as best I can, considering that we all have young children who throw up on our black shirts just as we’re trying to get out the door to meet each other. I’d really like to have the privilege of watching my mother grow older gracefully for many more years to come. These are goals, I suppose. But “maintenance” isn’t something I can wrap my spirited, ambitious self around for the next ten years.

By this point in life, I know myself pretty well. I’ve come to accept that if I wasn’t a size six at twenty, I can’t expect to be a size six now. I know that if too many people are near me when I try to put on makeup, I start to sweat. I know what I can let go of and what I need to work out so that I don’t feel anxious. And, I’m telling you, I need something that I can strive for during the next decade.

I’m a walker, a Forrest Gump-like walker who just doesn’t know when to stop. One day, though, I did. Even though I hike the same trail through the same woods every single day, I saw a tree not unlike all the others, but on that day, it stood out to me. And so I stopped. Maybe it was the recent rain, maybe it was the fact that the yellow leaves had all but abandoned their job of announcing my birthday (autumn, to the rest of the world) and fallen at my feet. I don’t know why, but in that instant, I knew what I was supposed to do with this next chapter of my life.

That tree stood out to me, because, overnight, the leaves had fallen and revealed what keeps it all together: its trunk, its backbone—lustrous and strong and reaching toward the sky. As I looked around, with both feet firmly planted on the ground, my woods were no longer a beautiful blur. They were vast and rich with possibilities. I felt a sense of discovery I hadn’t had, or taken the time to have, in a very long time. It made me excited to go on. Even though I’d be moving in the same direction I’d been going all along, it would be with a new focus.

In my forties, I’m going to pay attention to something I’d almost lost track of: myself. I’ll be moving forward, not only as someone’s wife or mother, sister or daughter, writer or friend, but as the woman I’ve become somewhere along the way. In this decade, I intend to slow down and think and appreciate and learn. And even if I have no great new accomplishment to show for the next ten years, I know the process will be exhilarating.

—Julie Clark Robinson