Five OH

What If the Second Half Is the Best Half?

Life right now is both deeply beautiful and absolutely bonkers. Like, objectively good and subjectively gutting. And I’m not talking about most of it publicly because, well, some of it isn’t mine to share. Other people’s stories, other people’s pain, other people’s triumphs. But let’s just say: intensity. Life turned the dial to eleven and forgot to install a volume knob.

And yet.
And also.
It’s not all bad.

In fact, in the midst of this absolute whirlpool of humanity and chaos and grace and mess, I’m doing… pretty well?

(I KNOW, I DON’T KNOW EITHER.)

I turn forty-nine on Saturday.
FORTY-NINE.
Next year: fifty.

Can we pause for a sec?

FIFTY.

Like, five-oh.

The age I used to think meant AARP mailers and orthopedic shoes and that weird resignation to the universe that adults always seemed to wear like a trench coat they forgot they could take off. But now? I look at my grandfather, who turns NINETY-NINE this year, and I’m like… oh. Okay.

So maybe I’m actually halfway.

Halfway.

(That’s wild, right? A little sobering. A little thrilling.)

And what’s even wilder is that I’m not in some manic rush to plan a bucket-list birthday. I don’t want to throw a party or take a big dramatic trip or get a tattoo (okay maybe I still want the tattoo).

What I do want is this: I want to prepare for the second half of my life like it’s the most sacred thing I’ve ever done.

And I started doing that last year.

Started asking:
What would it feel like to prioritize my body the way I do my mind?
What happens when I treat my strength as a gift to my future self instead of a punishment for present me?
What if fitness isn’t punishment or control, but freedom?

So I signed up with a personal trainer. A menopause-specialized, non-binary-affirming trainer. (I know. Unicorns do exist. You just have to Google a lot and pray to the algorithm gods.)

And for six months now, I’ve been working with Warrior Babe. And let me tell you, this journey has been as much therapy as it has been physical training. My trainer talks me through self-doubt. Through body image crap. Through hormonal tsunamis and “I can’t even” mornings. Sometimes I lift. Sometimes I just cry. And both count.

Here’s what’s true: I’ve only ever cared about my physical body when it helped support my brain.

The strength I’m building now? It keeps me here.

The daily cardio? It doesn’t just help my body—it helps the Prozac keep my anxiety in check. It makes the therapy stick. It softens the spiral.

And last year, I asked: what happens if I feed myself well—not because I hate my body, but because I love it?

What if I move gently and joyfully—not to burn calories, but to worship this vessel that’s carried me so far?
What if the second half of my life gets the best of me? Not what’s left over?

I still don’t have the answers. But I have a lot more energy. And a lot more grace. And sometimes, I catch myself in the mirror and don’t immediately wince.

That’s something.

So yeah.
Life is hard. Life is lovely.
I’m nearly fifty and not even remotely Nearly Dead.

I’m just getting started.