A Birthday of Some Consequence

I turned 46 over the weekend. 46 isn’t an age you dream about when you’re young. It sneaks up on you quietly, like dusk. You look up one evening and realize the light has changed. You’re not who you were, but you’re not finished becoming either.

Somewhere along the way, the urgency to arrive fades, and what replaces it is a hunger to make something, to leave something behind.

That’s where I find myself; mid-forties and wondering if it’s foolish or brave to try this endeavor. I’ve spent years building a practical life: family, career, structure. All good things. But there’s a hum beneath it all…a low, insistent reminder that the clock is ticking, and the truest work is still waiting.

Starting a side career as an artist at 46 isn’t about chasing dreams from my youth. It’s about reclaiming them with adult eyes. The fantasies have burned off; what’s left is truth.

The world doesn’t hand out permission slips for second acts. You have to write your own. And the ink you use is everything you’ve lived through. The mistakes, the detours, the small triumphs no one saw. They’re what make the work honest, I suppose.

46 is not the end of anything, I have to remind myself. It’s kind of like a hinge. The point in the story where the character finally understands what matters and starts walking toward it, even if the path is uncertain.

The truth is, I’d rather fail as my authentic self then succeeded as some other person. That’s the quiet revolution of middle age…you stop chasing applause and start chasing meaning.