I sobbed my way through last NYE. Unlike many, I was devastated to see the back of 2023. Ironic, really, as I thought I’d hate the year I turned 50. Against all expectations, though, it turned out to be a whirlwind of joy and discovery.
As the milestone birthday loomed in February 2023, I was divorced, single, in denial of my age and convinced I smelt of failure. Because by the time you’re 50, you’re meant to have cracked it. You’re meant to live an aesthetic life with a content husband and 2.4 perfect kids.
Not me, though. I was busy capitalising on my post-divorce freedom by partying and dating like a twentysomething. If #brat had been around in 2023, that was me. And although it was far from most middle-aged people’s definition of success, it was a lot of fun. Fun I feared would have to end once I hit the fifth floor. With a heavy heart, I resigned myself to growing up and getting sensible. The horizon suddenly looked cold, dark and lonely.
So rather than a big bang 50th celebration, I had a low-key commiseration in a bar, complete with a surprise Colin the Caterpillar cake and a Chanel gift bag containing nothing but a plastic tiara and a ‘Fifty and Fabulous’ sash. Forced to wear them by chuckling friends, I could no longer hide my age.
In a nod to our distant youth, the hardcore among us went clubbing. Proper leave-your-mind-at-the-door-until-6am clubbing. And here I got the most surprising 50th present of all. A smart, witty, sensitive and surprisingly mature man 18 years my junior. It was a chance meeting – the classic eyes across the dancefloor meet-cute of yore – that paved the way for six months of unadulterated, carefree, ageless fun. There followed more restaurants, exhibitions, festivals, gigs and clubs than you can shake a glow stick at. He simply didn’t care about my age, said he found me attractive and never showed a trace of embarrassment when we were out in public.
Knowing that some 32-year-olds could see past my age, 50 no longer seemed so all-defining.
As the year ended, I was grateful that a strange, benevolent force had given me an extra burst of life before I had to shrivel into a desiccated fiftysomething. I doubted this luck would last. So, on NYE, compelled to record 2023 before it turned to dust, I posted a cringe-worthy wrap-up of my year to Insta. A reminder that I had, once upon a time, lived fully. Then I let the tears fall.
But 2024 has proven to be even more fulfilling.
I flung myself way beyond my comfort zone by taking The Faber Academy’s novel writing course. 51-year-old me was brave enough to open herself up to a group of intimidatingly talented and literary strangers. I don’t think I’d have had the confidence to do it any earlier. These strangers proved so intelligent and thoughtful and kind that they’ve become inspirising, enriching friends. Writing a book can be solitary. And torturous. But having their support and a renewed sense of creative purpose is worth every difficult day.
I was ready to take on a fully legit magic mushroom retreat. It proved a life-changing experience that condensed five years of conventional therapy into five days and armed me with a more rounded understanding of what’s important and why I am the way I am. From healing bonds to keeping things in perspective, eight months down the line, I still feel its positive impact every day. I now wear a silver mushroom necklace 24/7 to remind me there are more important concerns than American elections, menopause, and cancelled trains.
I took my teen to Peru. Single parent, single child holidays are intense experiences that traverse the highest highs and lowest lows. But by trekking at 4,500 metres and surfing at zero metres, Machu Picchu and the Amazon jungle, gave us treasured moments and lifelong memories.
Most momentous of all, I finally found love. Genuine, healthy love. The kind made possible by five decades of failures, learning and practice. I found it with an ex from 30 years ago. We first met as twentysomething fledglings, busy figuring out who we were, what we wanted. It didn’t work out back then because we weren’t ready. Me, most of all. It’s taken one divorce and two years of therapy to identify my avoidant behaviours. But now, we are.
And then it clicked. Perhaps there isn’t a strange benevolent force at work. This is just what it is to be older, wiser, therapised, better off, more secure, more tolerant, freer from the demands of dependents and establishing a career. Without these age-related benefits, I wouldn’t have been confident enough to start a writing course, wouldn’t have been stable enough for a psilocybin retreat, wouldn’t have been capable of taking a child across the world on my own, wouldn’t have got rid of enough hang-ups to embark on a new relationship.
So perhaps our sixth decade is one of incline, not decline. One where we can start cashing in on all those hard-won learnings from earlier upheavals, mistakes and disappointments. As 52-year-old PT and Instagram sensation Caroline Idiens told me: “It’s the decade where you can really embrace new challenges and focus on what’s truly important. You can feel stronger than ever.”
And science supports this. According to Dr Fox Online Pharmacy’s Dr Deborah Lee, there’s a recognised psychological trait called ‘age by valence’, whereby our brains develop more positive emotions as we age. Perhaps this helps explain why I feel more optimistic than ever.
It would be naive to think life will always be a bed of roses. And I’m far from ready to embrace my wrinkles and ailing joints. But I’ve decided they’re a price worth paying. Because if, like me, you screwed up the first time around, your 50s are a second chance to live your best life.
