When I was a teenager, I genuinely believed that getting older was going to be this massive upgrade. I used to think that life would suddenly unlock a cooler version of itself.
Being older meant freedom—real freedom. The kind where you could speak your mind, chase whatever caught your interest, and not constantly live life in survellience. Back then, I couldn’t wait to age into myself.
In school, I remember looking at the seniors at school with a quiet kind of admiration. They just seemed cooler. Not because they were doing anything extraordinary, but because of how they carried themselves. The way they talked. The way they hung out. The confidence that came with knowing they were a few steps ahead of us. At the time, I didn’t need a reason to like it. It just felt right.
Then my twenties arrived—and honestly, they didn’t disappoint. Finishing school felt like someone had loosened a knot around my chest. Suddenly, life had fewer rules. I had a motorcycle, open roads, and a group of reckless, carefree guys who were always down for an 11 p.m. ride across the city. Style mattered back then—fashion had its own taste and we fell for it. It was a vibe, and we were fully living in it.
College came next, and to this day, it stands undefeated. Those years were pure gold. Every day felt like something to look forward to, and time moved at a ridiculous speed. Looking back now, it feels like it slipped by without warning—and thats probably because we enjoyed every possible bit of it and never wanted it to end. If a miracle happens and I ever get a chance to travel back in time, I wouldn’t hesitate to go back there.
Graduating felt impossible while it was happening. Like something that would never actually arrive. And then suddenly, it was over. Just like that. The excitement faded quickly, replaced by one of life’s most unforgiving phases—finding a job. Some people land on their feet immediately. Some tidy ones already had jobs while still in college. It took me a while. A long while rather. And that waiting period humbles you in ways nothing else does. I was patient.
I got married in 2017. I now have a two-year-old daughter. I’m standing at the far end of my thirties. And here’s the strange part—I don’t feel it. Not even a little. What’s missing from what I feel isn’t the age, it’s the way I used to approach life. But I cannot lie that the carefree momentum is gone. And that’s okay. It’s not supposed to stay the same forever.
Someone else might notice the changes — the greying hair, somewhat wrinkly skin, a different posture, a different pace. I get it, but it doesn’t bother me. That’s just biology doing its thing. You don’t outrun time. You learn to walk alongside it and bro I feel like am learning pretty good.
I don’t feel like I’m inching toward forty. I know forty sounds heavy. Like a milestone that demands seriousness. Maybe it’s technically more than half of a lifetime. Maybe I won’t even make it to another forty. But it doesn’t feel like halfway. Hell, it doesn’t even feel like a quarter.
Am I insanely lucky to feel this way? Does everyone feel like this and just not say it out loud? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t care to find out what forty is “supposed” to feel like. To me, it should feel exactly like this. Comfortable. Curious. Alive. If we can learn to love our forties, maybe we end up loving the rest of our lives a little better too.
And if you think I’m trying to pass forty off as thirty—maybe I am, perhaps deliberately. Because why not.
So I say – Forty, my friend, is the new thirty!