The smart phone dinged incessantly early this morning ‘round 8 a.m. at my small Waynesville apartment. Social media notifications and text messages. Then came the phone calls from my mother and father way up in the North Country. It’s my 39th birthday. 

You have been together a month, maybe two. It was whirlwind and all, that electric “getting to know you” phase when every single thing is new and fascinating and terrifying because this just might be it.

The sound of falling leaves crunched under our feet as we searched for the white blazes along the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. Our dog, Ringo, happily followed along, thrilled to be out of the house and into the woods.

I just turned the big 6-0. Sixty. What the hell?

I’ve been reading essays on reaching this point in life, and I don’t seem to be taking this as philosophically as some. Unlike others, I don’t think I’ll be posting up on a barstool or relaxing in an easy chair and waxing poetic regarding the wisdom attained over so many years, or professing to be at the stage of life where I am perfectly satisfied, confident and content in being the person I want to be and where my life is. That’s what so many essays on aging seem to prioritize.

I turn 40 years old this week. 

The idea has not been settling well, and I’m not sure why. I’m an optimist on most matters, but this pivotal birthday has been bothering me. Perhaps it’s because I’m not quite where I want to be professionally or maybe it’s because ever since my mom passed away, mortality feels real and life seems fragile. Whatever the reason, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching.