Not afraid to say it - I’m 42 today

A cancer survivor's birthday reflections on aging

I’ve never seen Oscar Wilde’s play, but I’ve felt the echoes of his sentiment, “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age” all my life. I think most American women have.

It’s not exactly socially proper for a lady to reveal her age, and especially when she’s “over the hill.” But since my life has rarely been typical, I’ll go ahead and say it: I turn 42 today.

I hope you’ll still trust me.

Photo by Will Clayton on Flickr

The projections of exactly how tall and wide my “hill” will be (you know, the one I supposedly crossed over a few years ago) flattened when I was first diagnosed with cancer in my teens. Today, my life expectancy is unclear.

I’ve had doctors tell me chemo can shorten lifespans and age our bodies—so physiologically I am likely much older than my 42-year-old frame. But I’ve had other, more recent, doctors say I have a normal life expectancy for someone my age despite my health history. I’ve been exercising regularly the past few years, which is surely helping my case, and all bloodwork appears normal.

I’m going to ignore my Spotify Wrapped which said my age is 28. (It was flattering, but a case of mom’s account being tied to every Alexa device in the house and likely the average age of listeners who like Taylor Swift, Boy Genius, and Friday by Rebecca Black.)

It can be a mental exercise to put aside these projections and enjoy the day. Birthdays are bittersweet. I’ve often attributed this to nonprofit “birthday” campaigns that tug at your heartstrings and ask for money so people like me will see more birthdays. As a comms pro, I find these appeals genius. Yes, I want more birthdays! Of course I’ll give you $50!

But as a cancer survivor, these campaigns bring emotional reminders that make me cognizant of what I’d rather not face. I often enter a liminal space when I’m supposed to be thinking of a “wish” and bending down to blow out candles. My friends who didn’t make it to more birthdays come to mind, and then I can’t help but wonder, “Can I wish for the same thing every year?” “Should I have given more than $50?” “Wait, what was that phantom pain I just felt?” “Will these candles be my last? I hope not.”

After all these years, my body knows what to do. When the smoke hits my nostrils, I snap back to reality and see that I’m surrounded by people hoping my wish comes true. If only they knew. Hopefully I didn’t just jinx myself by revealing it.

Getting older is heavy, but it’s also light. It’s not all so morbid.

Today, I smile at the thought Gen Z now sees me, an elder millennial, as old. I remember thinking people in their forties were old not too long ago (although it was actually 15-plus years ago). Their wedding pictures were outdated and their home furnishings were not on Pinterest. The pots and pans in their kitchens were scuffed and most of their extra time and money went to their kids. It seemed like a phase so far away for a childless twenty-something.

But yet, here I am. Time does go fast. It’s funny how things change.

I don’t think my wedding gown looks that dated, but the younger crowd would likely disagree. We replaced the first couch we owned just a few years ago, and most of my cookware is, ahem, well loved and seasoned.

I now understand why older adults don’t update their furniture, appliances, or clothes more often—it gets expensive and especially when you have kids.

Plus, they don’t make stuff like they used to, you know? This new stuff all the young kids like falls apart (or is so cheap (before tariffs) because it’s imported from China!). Goodness, I do sound like an old lady.

I don’t only sound old, I look old too (according to my Instagram feed full of women my age saying so!). My skin and hair are obvious targets–I probably need more color on my grays and more filler and vitamin c and acid and snail goo to smear on my face. (But I get 20% if I use their code.) My skinny jeans are likely still on the rack at the thrift store that received my donation after I learned those too were out. I’ve made some updates as I’ve aged, but I’ve not overhauled—and that probably won’t change.

The real beauty of it all? I don’t care.

You see, I’m embracing that I’m 42, the age a younger version of me called old. I’m living a life where my wishes were granted (really—my prayers were answered). I’ve had 24 birthdays since my first cancer diagnosis.

I’m thankful my well-used cookware has held up and that I have kids to spend my extra money on. Nobody cares if I wear comfortable clothes every day, and that’s liberating.

I’ve accepted that mental and emotional gymnastics will come up each birthday because it’s a part of survivorship (and technically PTSD if we’re being really honest). I’m grateful for coping strategies.

So while days like today can be bittersweet and thrust me even deeper into aging, I’m happy to see another birthday and hopeful for another trip around the sun.