For someone who doesn’t take the concept of aging very well, this one was a doozy. I’ve been dreading this ever since I was throwing up from food poisoning the day after my 30th birthday.

My 30s were a roller coaster of unpredictability, regret, depression, death, loneliness and resignation. I abruptly quit one job to go into another that I was mediocre (at best) at, watched my grandmother die slowly over the course of several years, being flung back into the real world not knowing if I had coping skills to operate within its barbaric structures. It was a decade of poverty while being yelled at consistently for not having any money. I thought about ending these twice while things almost did (unwillingly) end for me this past year.

What really got me in this milestone birthday was the regret of a pretty wasted decade.

To be honest, I don’t really know where I expected to be at this point in life. I guess I expected to feel more at ease in life instead of this quivering mess of depression and anxiety who’s barely keeping it together and by Friday is done with the world.

Now that 40 has hit, I’m remarkably okay with it. I’m not thrilled by it by any means, but I guess it’s not so bad. Mentally I still feel like I’m in my 20s, but my body makes sure to let me know I am most definitely 40. Everything is bit achy. Instead of being able to party into the wee hours, by 1 am I looking to hibernate. And now the first thought that goes through my head when thinking about doing the drugs I did in my 20s is, “Will it adversely affect the Metformin and Carvedilol,” instead of, “Sure, the more the merrier!”

But that’s okay. Now I’m determined to travel the world more while still trying to be young mentally. I guess it could be worse: I could be normal.