Finding 40 (And Some Purpose)

Finding out your life actually is the one you've always wanted.

(Mini) hand-delivered spinach birthday waffles.

I turned 40 this year, and I dragged my unwilling feet up to the big day with dread. It wasn’t because I became farsighted literally overnight. I’ve always wanted the option of a cute pair of scholarly glasses. It wasn’t because of the slow spread of wrinkles across my sun-damaged face. I finally Botoxed most of those away, and my sun damage is still masquerading as a lingering tan from my most recent adventure. 

The dread caught me by surprise as I was mostly looking forward to this decade. My annoyingly sage mom has always described her 40’s as the absolute best, so I was ready to welcome them with gusto. And yet, a looming uneasiness came creeping in as the day approached. I realized later that it was from a feeling of failure to achieve something bigger. Maybe a bigger career. A more impressive title. After all, my bio includes stints as an aspiring astronaut (3 x space camp attendee), pickle peddler (family-owned pickle factory), singer/songwriter (studied music at both New World School of the Arts and Berklee College of Music) and master of marketing (masters degree from Northwestern University and director of strategic planning at multiple Chicago and Miami ad agencies). And so, I’d developed this misguided albeit common perception that I was less than if I was just “mamma”. You know the one.

Recently though, just a couple of months following doomsday, I felt a flash of inspiration coursing through my veins. It came with the encouragement of two friends: one who knows me well enough to remind me I’ve always been a writer (though I think this may be the first time I’ve actually declared it), and another I met recently but who’s known me for years via my forwarded travel tips and trip advice. These two joined together to give me the kick in the ass I needed. They woke me up to the fact that I have evolved, and so too should my definition of achievement.

Celebrating with the fam and a leftover Thanksgiving pie (note Dani’s disappoint).

Over the past ten years, I met and married a man (of the Italian variety) I affectionately refer to as Hurricane Gabri (because his force might actually be greater than that of nature). I’ve adapted to Italian-ness with impressive commitment: I speak Italian, drive a Vespa, yell while gesturing involuntarily, and I make the best pizza crust in town (well, at least on my block). I sing in the shower, in the car and at my fabulous musical-writing friend’s house when invited. I instigate dance parties regularly—whether at Burning Man, Ibiza or in my bedroom. And perhaps most importantly, I’ve given life to three incredible little humans (now ages one, three and five) for whom I, at the very least, strive to show the heart-busting love I have for them every day. Together, me and Gabri have literally carried our mini marvels across countless adventures in a multitude of countries. In short, I have partnered in the creation of a beautifully chaotic life, behind which I am the everyday engine. 

And so, I was mistaken. My life is the something bigger I’ve always wanted. It was keeping it to myself that was making it feel small. So here I am, no longer fearing 40 and instead, sincerely thanking you, friends new and old, for being part of my purpose.