By Kristyna Moore 
I’m turning forty in a few short months. Forty.
In my younger years, I assumed 40 would be the age I fought against—proof that my best years were behind me, and it was all downhill from here. Now I think it might be the age where we finally arrive. There has been no meltdown. No spiraling in the middle of the night. Just the unexpected realization that I am not afraid of this chapter. I am actually looking forward to it.
That does not mean the transition has been graceful. It has required a fair amount of reckoning. There is the early perimenopause while still raising small humans. The wrinkles earned from decades of laughing, crying, and surviving things I once thought might break me. A body that is evolving and asking to be met with patience and grace. The loss of a parent. The sudden, sobering awareness that life is both precious and fleeting. And the brain fog. The kind that sends you to Google for an answer, only to forget what you were searching for, remember it moments later, open a new tab, and promptly forget again.
Still, alongside all of it, something steadier has taken root. A clarity. A confidence. Not loud or performative, but grounded. The kind that does not need approval to exist.
For most of my life, from pre-teen years through my early 30s, I had virtually zero self-confidence. I was deeply insecure and never felt like I was enough. I picked myself apart relentlessly and cared far too much about what others thought or said about me. Somewhere in my mid-30s, I decided to share my deepest insecurities online, largely because I wanted to be a better role model for my daughter. That decision cracked something open inside of me. It was uncomfortable. It was terrifying. It was also deeply freeing.
With each passing year, I feel more grounded in who I am. My circle of friends is smaller now, but it is solid. These women know that if I don’t respond for days (or weeks), it’s not personal. It’s life. It’s exhaustion. It’s because I am being pulled in a million different directions or because I went to reply and got distracted by the sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled squirrel running loose in my brain. There is something sacred about friendships that do not require constant maintenance to survive. The kind where you can go weeks without talking or years without seeing each other, yet you know without question we will all show up in force when one of us is going through it.
My tolerance for chaos and drama has nearly vanished. I value my peace, which quickly becomes my family’s peace, more than most things. I am learning to care less about what people think or say about me. I am still a work in progress, but I no longer feel the need to explain or defend who I am. There is power in realizing the people who genuinely know and love you already understand your heart. They bear witness to your character in the everyday moments, and they are the ones who truly matter. So protect your peace and save your energy for the people who fill your cup, not drain it.
I am also craving a simpler life. Not an easier one, but a more intentional one. A life where presence matters more than making it picture-perfect. Where I lean into the unplanned, the chaotic, the moments that feel small—because often, those are the ones that leave the deepest, most cherished memories. I want slow conversations, adventures with my cup-fillers that energize my soul, and memories that outlast anything I could hold in my hands.
Lately, everything I do is filtered through the thought of my final day here on earth and one simple question: Will I regret spending precious time and energy on this, or will I wish I’d had more of it? That perspective alone has brought incredible clarity as to what I value, fill my time with, and give my energy to.
So yes, things are changing. Gravity is doing what gravity does. I now run the risk of throwing my neck out by sneezing too hard, and my hormones wake up each day choosing violence. But I am by no means mourning the woman I used to be. I am becoming someone more honest, more grounded, more clear-eyed, and more at peace. And I am convinced that if we let them, our 40s can be a powerful beginning to the next chapter, the one where we step fully into ourselves and begin again with curiosity, courage, and purpose.
by Keri Forsythe-Stephens 
by Kelsey Scism 
