The year I turn 40

I’ll unlearn the rules I never agreed to in the first place.

I’ll show up like an anthem with lipstick and thunder.

The year I turn 40

Is the year I’ll respond to drama with “Not me, not any longer.”

I’ll keep planting wildflowers where people expect lawns.

I’ll manifest magic by being magnetic to the momentum the builds legacies, attracting energies and abundant entities

Some call it angels or fairies

God’s work or Heart work

Co-creating with the universe

My spirit knows what I’m here for and

I trust it

 

Knowing

It’s been ten years since Alexa ever would.

And two since Kimon ever could.

So I live for us all.

I laugh for us all.

I wear bindis for the ones who left too soon

I carry them in my courage too

I thought I’d be somewhere else by now.

I thought I’d have more—

certainty, more answers,

more family.

 

Instead, I’m here—

with laughter lines and quiet heartbreak

still holding a soft corner in my heart

for something that may never arrive.

 

This is the year I mourn time.

The ticking clock I pretended not to hear in my thirties.

The spaces I thought would be filled by now.

The echoes of “should’ve”

and “wasn’t meant to be.”

 

I mourn the time I thought was near,

The years I thought would bring me here.

The “should’ve been” and “why not me?”

The empty spaces still to see.

 

It’s been ten years since Alexa ever would— two years since Kimon never could.

I carry them both in my joy, my daring, my ache.

They remind me that being here

is still something sacred.

 

So yes, there is sadness.

Yes, there is longing.

But there’s also thunder in my chest,

and lipstick that dares the world to stare

 

I’ll toast to what I’ve lost,

what I’ve survived,

and who I’ve become.

 

Forty isn’t failure.

It’s not too late.

 

It’s fire.

 

And it’s mine.

🔥