It’s all downhill from here

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This, but in cake form. With gravestones, of course. (Getty Images)

When my dad turned 40, we surprised him with a birthday cake shaped like a grassy mound. Tiny gravestones jutted out of the green icing. “Over the hill!” was written in white, loopy grocery-store-bakery lettering. In my mind’s eye, there was also a miniature tractor on a chocolate dirt road, but when I called my mom to fact-check this, she said I was mistaken. (“That wouldn’t make much sense, would it?” she said, which made me laugh.)

Tractor or not, my brother and I thought the cake was cool. Our dad did not. He got angry, upset by the tacky morbidity of it all, and went to bed early. Now, three decades later, my mom, brother, and I can laugh about the blunder. But for a long time — as long as Dad was alive — it remained a sore subject.

He passed away in 2013, at just 58 years old. If life is a hill, he was already well on the other side when he turned 40. Maybe he knew that. No wonder he got mad.

My friend Paige insists that 40 is the new 29 — that we’re still young, with plenty of life ahead. Others say your 40s are the best decade: you’re old enough to have wisdom, young enough to enjoy it. Then there’s that proverbial hill — a cheap punchline that can sting, depending who’s on the receiving end.

The truth is, I’d be lucky if I’m at the midpoint of my life. Many of my ancestors didn’t make it to 80. And every birthday I celebrate is one more than my husband got — eight, and counting. I try to hold onto that. To remember my luck. I try to resist anti-aging marketing, to embrace my deepening wrinkles and wiry gray hairs, to make peace with the possibility that I have fewer years ahead than I’ve already lived.

These things are easier to write than to do. Still, I try.

What does it mean to be over the hill? Maybe it means the hardest part is behind me. Maybe things get easier, more effortless. I’ve shed so much of the weight of caring what other people think. I was told that this would happen, and I’m happy to report it has. It feels freeing — like finally using up supplies from the heavy hiking backpack I’ve been hauling around.

But downhill can be hard, too. Especially with knees like mine, worn out from old soccer injuries and poor genetics. In this season of life, there’s still plenty of room to learn — how to garden, how to write a book, how to parent, how to age with grace — and I approach these beginnings with care, choosing my challenges wisely. I step with intention, aware of my surroundings, more alert to risks and attuned to rewards.

Sometimes, downhill is a thrill. It’s coasting on a bike, wind whipping past, trees and houses and mailboxes a blur. It’s exhilarating — and disorienting. How did it all go so fast? How did I get here? What did I miss along the way?

And sometimes, it’s a relief. A bittersweet one. Climbing is exhausting. I can imagine a future version of me eager to reach the base, even knowing it means the journey is almost over.

Just the other night, my daughter and I talked about how you can feel two things at once. I remember what it felt like to be her age — caught between being a baby and a big kid, wanting to live in both worlds. All these years later I’m still learning how to hold opposing feelings at the same time.

When I reach the end of my hill — when the slope softens into quiet, grassy fields — I wonder if I’ll be able to hold space for everything that comes.

“How does it feel for your 40 Lessons project to be over?”

You think I’d have a good answer. People ask, and I mumble something about being proud of sticking with it, satisfied with what I produced, accepting of the readers gained and lost. The only part I say with confidence is this: I have no idea what comes next.

When I started the project, I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep writing this newsletter. My boundaries felt flimsy. I was revealing too much, or not enough — writing for an audience before I’d had time to process things privately. Giving myself a framework of lessons felt like adding guide rails. It felt safer, more certain.

Sure, sometimes the structure was limiting. I wrote about the same themes over and over. Still, I loved the project. I rediscovered something I’ve long believed: constraints breed creativity. Writing felt good again. Showing up week after week, lesson after lesson, added up. By October, I was halfway there. By spring, I was flying downhill.

And now? I’m here. Catching my breath. Wondering what comes next, eager to find out.

I wouldn’t mind hanging out here for a while. (Getty Images)

The morning of my 40th birthday, I walked into the dining room, greeted by a gold banner that read: “HOLY SHIT YOU’RE 40!” Billy thought it was great. I did too. So did our four-year-old, though we told her that the words “holy” and “shit” were “oh” and “wow.” Time will tell if we’ve damaged any future reading skills.

I thought about my dad and that ill-considered cake. Would he have appreciated a profane banner instead? I like to think so. Oh wow, indeed.

Maybe the hardest part is behind me. But I know there will be challenges ahead. Going downhill isn’t always easy; it’s difficult to do with grace. The days will rush past, and I’ll try to hold onto them — through words and photos, lingering hugs with Billy and our ever-changing child. No longer a baby, not yet a big kid.

Like my daughter, I’m in an in-between moment, too. We all are. I like to imagine I’m standing at the peak, taking it all in. If I look back, I can see everything I’ve traversed. All the places I stumbled and sprinted and wanted to give up. If I look ahead, the path is foggy but full of possibility. There will be more missteps. More joy. Maybe even some effortlessness — something I’ve rarely felt, but am ready to welcome.

But I can’t see it all. Not yet. The trail is shrouded in that magical, mysterious mist. It’s mine to discover, one step at a time.

For now, I’m content to take a breather and enjoy the view.

Oh wow, I’m 40.

Oh wow, what a climb.

xoxo
KHG

p.s. Downhill or not, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the future of My Sweet Dumb Brain. Will you please fill out this survey? It will only take a few minutes of your time. Thank you, thank you, thank you in advance.