This is 40

I remember when I was a kid, I had a picture book that showed the options for girls when they grew up and went to work.

The choices before my 10-year-old self were: receptionist, teacher, nurse or stay-at-home mum.

At that age I’m fairly certain I wanted to be an artist — obviously not an option presented in the book. I remember thinking that being a stay-at-home mum would have to be it, given none of the other careers appealed to me, and I liked staying at home (some things never change). Like a lot of us in the 90s, I assumed that by the time I was a grown-up I’d automatically have all the grown-up things — a house, a husband (no one said partner back then), and children. As per the book.

This month I turn 40, and my life is nothing like the book. Or any book I’ve ever read.

I never aspired to be athletic.
To lift weights.
To play sport.
To teach other people how to move their bodies.

I bludged out of PE. Quit every team sport I was forced into. Smoked ciggy butts in the park instead of going to the tennis lessons my parents were paying for. (Truthfully, that made for a more memorable childhood, so no regrets there.)

I didn’t give a single fuck about health, strength or movement — all the things that are now the centre of my universe.

I still imagined I’d “grow up” into a white picket fence life.
But having a passion for helping anyone other than myself? That wasn’t on the cards.

Recently my best friend said that if it hadn’t been for my failing marriage back in 2014, I probably never would have set foot in a gym.

She’s not wrong.

What started as a bit of a “I’ll show you” turned into a hobby.
Then an obsession.
Then a complete life overhaul.

I escaped feeling unseen and unwanted by finding fulfillment somewhere else — through learning, through progress, through watching myself get stronger. I developed a sense of pride in who I was because of what I could do.

It didn’t save my relationship, but it saved my relationship with myself.

And somewhere in that process, I found something I never knew I was missing — purpose.

Not the purpose that came in a picture book.
Not the one tied to a husband or a house or a timeline.

But a genuine, embodied why:
To help other people feel that same self-trust, that same pride, and that same quiet confidence that comes from doing hard things and realising you’re capable.

My life doesn’t look like the book. It looks better (and that’s not to shit on nurses and receptionists). 

So that’s why, as I hurtle into my 40s, I’m excited.

I created a life I genuinely wanted. One that celebrates my differences, my independence, and my ability to just keep going — even when everything feels completely fucked sometimes.

A few weeks ago, the intrusive thought of “what if I don’t know what the next 10 years hold?” sent me into a tailspin.

But here’s what I do know:

I like who I am.
I’m proud of where I’ve gotten to.

Finding my why was the first step. Now I plan to lean into it — and see where it takes me.

So here’s to being an official grown-up…and still not really having any fucking idea what I’m doing.

Yet, here I am, trusting myself anyway.