next

didn’t celebrate forty
with a grand party.

At the time,
I wasn’t sure there was much to celebrate
beyond what I had survived.

And survival…
can be a lonely thing to commemorate.

But somewhere between forty
and forty-one,
my perspective changed.

Scripture often speaks of forty
as a season of preparation.

Forty days.

Forty years.

Not punishment.

Preparation.

A wilderness where faith is stretched,
character is refined,
and God quietly proves
that He never abandoned the journey.

Maybe that’s what forty was for me.

A year of looking back
and realizing just how many times
God carried me
when I thought I was walking alone.

He carried me
through uncertainty.

Through health challenges
that taught me
not to take ordinary days for granted.

Through nights
when motherhood felt impossibly heavy,
and mornings
when my children still needed
the strongest version of me.

He carried me
through grief,
disappointment,
and prayers
that took longer than I expected to answer.

And yet…

Here I am.

Forty-one.

Not defined
by what I survived,
but by what survived in me.

Wonder.

Faith.

Curiosity.

Joy that has learned
to exist alongside sorrow.

Eyes that notice
the sunrise,
the ocean,
the songs of tree frogs,
the laughter of my children,
and the quiet ways
God still whispers,
“I’m here.”

I don’t believe forty-one
is about finally arriving.

I think it’s about finally seeing.

Seeing that every closed door,
every unexpected detour,
every unanswered question,
and every scar
has been part of a story
far more beautiful
than I could have written myself.

So this year,
I won’t celebrate
because life has been easy.

I’ll celebrate
because God’s faithfulness
has outlived every hard season.

And if the wilderness
was forty,

then forty-one
is my first step forward—

with gratitude,
with wisdom,
and with eyes
wide open.