Why turning 50 made me cry, and no I don't want to be young again

I was excited about turning 50, until I did. Why do I feel stuck in a floaty boat feeling more connected to places few see?

I was born on August 12, 1974 while President Ford addressed Congress in a televised speech¹. It was a Monday night, and he’d just been sworn in over the weekend after Nixon’s resignation. My 23-year-old mom, a nightshift keypunch operator, barely got to the hospital in time to give birth to my 10 pounds and 7 1/2-ounce self. My parents brought me home from the hospital, my mom holding me up front in their orange Karmann Ghia.

My dad proudly boasted that I was the biggest baby in the nursery in the way that dads celebrated fatherhood in the cigar-smoking 70s. My older brothers doted over me like a doll. My mom fell in love with me and wouldn’t trade me for the world — even after she realized I’d be double the work than my brothers combined.

That was the story I heard growing up. So much so I feel like I remember it. Given how young and overworked tired my mom was, I’ll always be amazed and grateful that she was wise enough to give up early on trying to change me. Instead, she always loved me for who I was. That’s not easy for any parent, and at that time, it seemed pretty rare. I always try my best to love and accept other people like my mom did me. I think it’s one of the best ways to honor a parent, to share the good with others they gave to you.

My dad’s “fend for yourself” parenting style was harder to love. And sometimes, it made me feel unloved. But I am grateful that he treated me just as capable of fending for myself as my three brothers. He never assumed I should eat less, dress or act certain ways or make myself smaller in any way just because I was a girl. And although he didn’t seem to care how I felt, he did ask me what I thought. That did make me feel like I mattered. And it made me curious to learn more things.

Working third shift while pregnant

I sometimes wonder if I connect most to late summer because I was born in August. The sound of crickets, softening, slowly fading sunlight, and mellowing greens perfectly balance warmth and calm. Maybe my body still remembers its first sensory input from the outside world. I’ve read aloud every Weird But True! book published before 2015 to know anything is possible. That’s what makes science so fun and explains why art and science make great companions.

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I feel so honored and so fortunate to be 50. No matter what comes next, I know how lucky I’ve already been. I feel full of gratitude and want to give back out of joy, not guilt. Crossing this milestone, my own life already feels less precious, and that’s not a bad thing. The most interesting people I’ve known are those who embrace their own mortality. I can’t say I’m there, but that’s the direction I want to head towards.

I’ve never liked celebrating my birthday—even as a kid. Twelve was the last birthday I celebrated, my last golden birthday². I had a sleepover party. We pretended to put each other into trances. We asked Ouija about our future. And I got a Pig Mania game I never opened.

But I was seriously excited about turning 50. So why not celebrate?

50th birthday sadness

I ended up feeling profoundly sad on my birthday, as in crying in the middle of the restaurant, and during the night and almost non-stop the whole week. I will never again hold tears back.

But no, I wasn’t crying like the sad, crazed depictions of middle-aged women in movies, though I probably looked the part. I’m not worried my life is over when it’s not. I don’t care (that much) about sagging and wrinkles. And yeah, I know—a lot more are headed my way.

Aside from possible sensory discomfort, having an interesting-looking face of someone who’s lived a long time doesn’t worry me. I feel nothing like the horribly depicted older women in fairytales. I’m not vying to steal youth from younger women. I want to support and encourage younger women—not compete with them. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to trade places.

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The Fifty Face Soon to Come

I’d never want to go back in time and be young again. That sounds like a nightmare.

• I’d have to watch myself make the same mistakes because my 50-year-old self wouldn’t be able to convince my younger self what to do or think any more than I can other younger people I know.

• I wouldn’t want to know from the start how hard the hard things I’ve done ended up being. I love having a touch of delusional optimism. It’s not a mistake I want to correct.

• I’m grateful for every feeling of hope I’ve ever had, even when the hope didn’t come to fruition. I’d never want to give that up by knowing in advance what would never be.

And seriously, what is so great about youthful beauty? It’s way oversold.

However close I came to trying to make myself look a certain way, I always ended up being disappointed, bored and feeling like it meant more to other people than me—which is weird when it’s your own body.

Plus, I’ve lived long enough to know that people who seem to look “perfect” have just as perfectly messed up lives as anyone else. And sometimes, looking different in any way—even if it’s considered “desirable”—makes life more complicated and less safe.

Though I never wanted to stay forever young, I never imagined getting old—at least not old old, which when I was growing up meant over 60.

My grandma Odessa (left) and grandma Marie (right).

Being old seemed to suck

Old people seemed written out of the script when I was growing up. Almost all adults around me at home or school were young and sexually-charged boomers who thought 30 was old and 40 was over the hill. Well, my stepdad was in his 50s, but he was sick for many years and died at 57. Few friends had grandparents in the states and they usually traveled to visit them. My own grandmas lived a few hours away.

From what I saw when I visited them, living past 60 didn’t seem so fun. They seemed to be perpetually waiting. For someone to visit or call. For their next perm appointment or visit to their doctor. For mundane outings to the grocery store. The trip to the real supermarket with the automatic doors in next-over town—how could that be worthy of anticipation? But it was.

Phone calls were their lifeline. But they were expensive and therefore infrequent. My grandma Marie broke her hip trying to rush to pick up the phone and catch the call before the ring stopped, and she’d never know who it was.

Still, my grandmas were busy and seemed content. And they were always happy to see my brothers and me in a way that only grandmas can. But I always wondered, didn’t they want more? Was that really enough?

Sometimes, I saw glimpses of dreams. Like when my Grandma Marie tuned in to The Marie Tyler Moore Show, and stared with a longing look on her face. (Minus the overly “Minnesota niceness,” I could picture her being Mary too.) Or when she shared short stories she wrote, wanting feedback but not wanting to let it mean that much—and definitely not letting anyone else think it meant that much to her.

Or when my soap-loving Grandma Odessa told me about a dream she had. Her rosy-cheeked face lit up as she told me about a handsome man who knew how to dance and swept her off her feet. Even after four crappy husbands, why shouldn’t she hope to find “the one” in her seventies?

But it didn’t matter what they wanted to do. The old lady expectations were set and they looked the part.

I don’t want to live forever, but can imagine always wanting just one more day.

The perfect age to die

Old people seemed to live a world away, and I had no interest in getting stuck there. So maybe dying before I got to be their age wouldn’t be that bad? I remember thinking that way.

It was 1990; I woke up on a ratty couch after crashing at my friend’s hairband boyfriend’s apartment—the drummer dude who turned out to be 100% asshole even though initially he only seemed 80% likely to be.

Feeling mummified in my seamed pantyhose, zippered mini skirt, and tube top, I felt older than my 15 years. Between the left-in-overnight contacts suctioned to my eyes and my cat-eye makeup turned raccoon-like overnight, everything was a blur. Still, I felt the weight of drummer dude’s eyes on me as I fumbled for my nearby pack of Marlboro Lights from the coffee table.

“You know, those things could kill you,” so-smart drummer dude informed me as I lit up. The fresh taste of nicotine seemed better than the one in my mouth. “I know,” holding the smoky air in before exhaling and then adding, “Sixty is the perfect age to die,” I told him, truthfully and argumentatively believing that, and then continuing on to explain why.

Almost 20 years later, those words came back to haunt me when my dad unexpectedly died at that age. Sixty is not the perfect age to die. My dad’s story wasn’t fully written. He had plans, and I had hope. Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t I take better care of myself when I was younger? Why didn’t someone stop me from starting to smoke at barely 14? And why was I never good at stopping myself?

The problem is that I’m an awful predictor of what I think my future self will feel, think or want. So I’m finally starting to accept I have no real way of knowing who I’ll be at any future age I’m lucky enough to reach. Maybe a trip to the grocery store will be enough for me one day? And maybe that’s just fine, even great. Still, I don’t want someone else telling me what I can do, how to spend my time or what’s enough for me—premenopausal or post.

What’s more real than what’s not?

Turning 50 has felt like being in a floaty boat. It feels wondrously calm and ordinary in the moment when I’m busy working and my mind’s focused. During my 40s, I’ve learned to stop looking too far out ahead. My future is getting foggier along with the world’s, so what’s the point?

But what’s really thrown me off hitting this 50-year milestone—and brought me to tears—is how lonely and adrift I feel when I look back and see the island once my home. As I look to my left and right, I realize the people next to me can’t even see it. And the people who could see it are gone. It’s like it never even existed. But at the same time, as the distance grows, my connection to it feels stronger. And I need to feel being there again, even if only in my imagination.

Filtering has always been a good friend. She helped me when my kids were young, preventing my thoughts from becoming only interrupted tiny bits. Why do I sometimes forget she’s there? In my 50s, she’ll be my best friend. She’ll help me choose where to focus and spare me from boredom, anxiety and wasting time on stuff that brings no joy, no help and no growth. She’ll still allow me to feel discomfort, but only when I can handle it. And only when it serves some purpose.

Aside from my work, I want to focus less on the cold, hard facts and more on what’s impossible. I don’t want to spend time as a sponge for incessant, pingy input I never asked for. So I plan on spending more time in LaLa land in my 50s. I want to read more fiction and take in more sights and sounds artfully created by artists along with the haphazard beauty and awe-inspiring creations in the natural world. And yes, to real people. I want to be around real people in real life, and not only ones in my bubble.

As a kid, my imagination helped me feel less alone and more safe in a world I had little control over. And I need that again.

The most pretend things are starting to feel the most real again. And I weirdly feel younger than ever before.

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Next post: Gen X Health: What the hell is happening? — Thoughts on anxiety over getting sick and growing older. Plus, why mistrust is understandable and how I'm thinking about health and well-being after 50.

My brother was a risk-taker. As I turn 50, maybe I should be too.

Mama Needs Her La-La-Land Time

Staying Alive Inside While Feeling Dead to the World

1. Transcript to President Ford’s first Address to the Joint Session of Congress — “My Administration starts off by seeking unity in diversity.” In 8th grade, I had to memorize an extended excerpt from Nixon’s resignation speech. Why? I have no idea. And why do I still remember parts of it? It made me curious about this one—70s politics is fascinating.

2. I just learned this year that when your birthdate day matches the year you’re turning, it’s called a golden birthday. My oldest son is about to have his.