I'm 40. So what?

One night several months ago, I sat down on the couch next to my husband and declared: “I just had a terrible thought.”

He doesn’t take me too seriously, usually. But we’d been having a heavy year: death, cancer, mental health stuff. He braced himself as I plunged ahead.

“What if I’m bad at Instagram?”

In the silence that followed, he gave me a pointed side eye, the look of someone who doesn’t appreciate your practical joke.?

“No, think about it! You know how many people our parents’ age seem kind of bad at social media? There’s a whole generation coming up now that thinks the same thing about us.”

As it turns out, that fear was not unfounded. The Atlantic last month ran a piece about Gen Zers making parody TikToks to mock the distinctly Millennial approach to creating content. Millennials might have written the rules for social media – but we’re not exactly of the moment anymore.?

My husband, a medical professional, is not particularly hung up on being bad at social media. The question perhaps looms larger for me, someone who ostensibly works in social media.?

I turned 40 late last year. I was, admittedly, up in my feelings about it. “I’d sooner write about PTSD than being 40,” I blurted out to a coworker while batting around ideas for this newsletter. I was joking, of course. But also not joking at all.

Being 40 is weird. I’m now the person I always envisioned I’d be when I grew up. I have a satisfying career, a family I adore. And things like mice-infested apartments and not being able to afford dental care are a thing of the past.

And yet sometimes I still feel like the person I was 15 years ago, the young professional rushing out to happy hour every Friday afternoon with my closest work friends, being a little too indiscreet with the office gossip. The person with cute dresses and knowledge of all the hottest restaurant spots.?

It doesn’t help that sometimes I still expect to see that person in the mirror – or reflected back at me out in the world – and I … don’t anymore.?

Who are you even these days? I wonder. Can you even Instagram, brah?

People talk about the confidence — the lack of self-consciousness — that comes with getting older but I didn’t seem to be feeling that at all.?

To be fair, aging, especially for women, has long been a sort of cautionary tale. Don’t let yourself go.?

Women report higher rates of age discrimination than men. There’s also the old trope about how men get “better” with age while women get much, much worse. (It’s a lie though. A big, sexist lie.)

In some professions, the existential dread starts early. Less than a year before she took her own life, former Miss USA winner Cheslie Kryst wrote a heartbreaking piece in Allure in which she confessed, “Society has never been kind to those growing old, especially women. Turning 30 feels like a cold reminder that I’m running out of the time to matter in society’s eyes – and it’s infuriating.”?

There’s a lot to unpack from that statement, starting with what it even means “to matter” in the context of work and society.?

Far from the entertainment industry, I don’t equate relevance with my appearance. But even in the knowledge economy, I know the rules are changing.?

I recently accepted a position on the board of directors of a small not-for-profit. I am the only female director, and I knew going into it that I would be joining a group that’s been working together for decades. But I was excited about the opportunity to offer a new perspective. That opportunity came during my second meeting, when one of the officers wanted to put out a position statement with which I was deeply uncomfortable. I knew that it would sound off-putting to other women as well.?

I tried to be diplomatic. I’m trying to help you see how this might sound to our stakeholders, I said, offering some potential compromises.

He dismissed my suggestions, digging in deeper on why we should use his messaging.

I held my ground. Just consider what I’m saying, I said. This topic is so highly personal and anything we publish needs to be sensitive to that.?

He pushed back again.

I was riled up late into the night, and the next day too. I was in new territory. I had never been the only woman in a debate this charged before, having to explain to men much older than I am why something might read as tone deaf, even sexist – intended or not.

“Why do you think I’m so worked up about this?” I asked my husband that evening. I had spent so much mental energy researching the issue — but I still carried the worry that I might be accused of overreacting.?

“You’re not overreacting,” my husband said. “You’re reacting. People react to things in different ways. Your reaction led you to speak up.”

“It was hard to speak up,” I said. I spoke quietly, almost to myself. I had joined the board because I thought I could make a difference. I wasn’t sure I was getting anywhere.?

“It’s important to speak up.”

People like to say that the upshot of aging is wisdom, like it’s some sort of consolation prize. I don’t buy it. Wisdom is the sum of the lessons life imparts, often during hard times. Wisdom is a battle scar, not a prize.?

If anything, I think the reward for life experience is actually the opposite.?

When I was younger, I used to be scared to admit when I didn’t know something – even when I knew a lot. My local daily newspaper started sending me to cover front page stories when I was only an 18-year-old intern. You’re the reporter? people would ask when I showed up. I constantly felt the need to prove myself.?

Instead, if I’ve gained anything, it’s the freedom to be vulnerable.?

For instance, I often talk about the stories I covered as a summer intern. What I don’t talk about is how one night when I was covering the graveyard shift, the photographer on duty shot photos of me from across the empty newsroom. I was completely unaware of how closely he was watching me. The photos are lovely — and incredibly creepy.?

There was also the end-of-summer party when the music editor — age 30 — put his hand on me and tried to kiss me, out of nowhere.?

It never occurred to me, as a teenager in the early aughts, that I could speak up.?

But not too long ago, in my late 30s, I started doing a lot of sharing — this column as exhibit A. I started writing about topics that once felt too difficult to talk about. I soon discovered that there’s power in being vulnerable. Other people have been discovering the same thing too; my LinkedIn feed has never been as filled with personal storytelling as it is these days.?

So here’s this: I miss the days of being a young professional.?

I miss them because they were fun; I met some of my best friends at work, back when my only responsibility was my job. I miss them because it was energizing being in the building stage of a career. I miss them because society still offers the message that there’s capital in being young, especially when you’re a woman.?

But there’s something rewarding about this stage too, about having enough seniority to start giving back to others. To have the gravitas (and guts) to speak up when something makes you uncomfortable. To write articles about how you’re an imperfect person who sometimes feels insecure about your Instagram photos.?

The wisdom to acknowledge where I’m strong. The vulnerability to admit where I’m a work in progress.?

There’s power in both of those.?

After my last board meeting, I started reaching out to other women who are part of the organization. They validated my concerns — and brought up other instances where they felt like their concerns or opinions had been dismissed. Some of these women are much younger than I am. I realized that I am making a difference. I’m not intimidated by the other board members. I have a voice and there's something incredibly satisfying about using it.?

The wisdom to know when to speak up. The vulnerability to work through the discomfort of doing so.?

I might not always recognize this grown up in the mirror, but I think I’m turning out okay. And maybe being 40 isn’t so bad.?