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First of all, it’s not what you think.
There was a time when I could remember a phone number after hearing it once. I could keep up with two deadlines, three kids, school event schedules, a breaking news story and a grocery list—all without writing any of them down.
Now I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there.
Half the time, I’m looking for my glasses while they’re perched on top of my head. The other half, I’m convinced I’ve lost my phone, only to discover it’s been in my hand the entire time.
Welcome to 50. Somewhere between raising three boys, becoming a full-time caregiver for my father, teaching journalism, and attempting to remember whether I fed the dog or merely thought about feeding the dog, my brain quietly submitted its two-week notice.
It didn’t leave completely. It just stopped working overtime.
The funny thing is, when I was younger, I thought turning 50 would feel old.
It doesn’t. It feels ... sandwiched; I’m part of the “sandwich generation.”
Sandwiched between raising kids and caring for an aging parent. Between remembering passwords that now require 14 characters, a symbol, and a blood sample, and remembering the ever- growing list of medications for my dad.
Sandwiched between wanting a “hot girl summer” to celebrate turning 50 and the painful reality that every day is a “hot” day for this gal, thanks to hot flashes.
The last time I colored my hair was at the end of 2023, and something unexpected happened.
I stopped caring. Not because I gave up. Because I finally gave myself permission to stop pretending.
Every gray hair on my head has a story.
Some came from late nights waiting up for teenage boys who missed curfew.
Some came from sitting beside my dad’s hospital bed.
Some came from work. And quite a few probably came from trying to explain to high schoolers that no, ChatGPT should not write their entire essay.
Gray isn’t the absence of youth.
It’s evidence of life. I’ve earned every single strand. I’ve cried enough to know healing isn’t linear.
I’ve loved people who are no longer here.
I’ve raised children who are now taller than I am.
I’ve survived chapters I once thought would destroy me.
The gray isn’t the problem. The harder adjustment has been realizing my body and my brain are no longer in the same group project.
My brain says, “Let’s repaint the kitchen, reorganize the closets, and write three feature stories this weekend.”
My joints respond, “Absolutely not.”
My hormones wake up each morning and spin what I can only assume is a Wheel of Fortune.
Today’s prize? Will it be hot flashes? Will it be tears because a dog in a commercial found his forever home?
Will it be irrational rage because someone is chewing too loudly?
Nobody knows! But here’s the surprising part. For all the things I’ve misplaced— my keys, my phone, my train of thought—I think I’ve finally found myself.
Twenty-five-year-old me worried about being liked.
Thirty-five-year-old me worried about getting everything right.
Forty-five-year-old me worried about everyone else.
Fifty-year-old me? I still have ambitions. I still have fears. Maybe that’s what 50 really is. Settling into yourself. So yes, I’m gray, and I forget things.
And if you’ll excuse me...I had a reason for walking into this room. I’m sure it’ll come back to me.
Eventually.
