This year, I turned 40.
Four. Zero.
For a long time, those two digits felt like a cliff edge — the beginning of the end. Especially as a single Black woman. Society whispers (or shouts) all sorts of nonsense: « You’re running out of time, » « You should’ve been married by now, » « Where are the kids? » The milestone that should be celebrated is often served with a side dish of shame, pressure, and fear. Luckily, this pressure never came from my own parents. Mariage was never a goal, my worth has a daughter was never based on the kind of husband I could bring to the family.
Let me be clear: I’m not scared of aging anymore. That fear? That ridiculous fear? I’ve decided to lay it to rest. Because aging is a privilege. Every wrinkle, every stretch mark, every silver strand of hair is a receipt — proof that I’ve lived, I’ve learned, I’ve loved. I’m still here. And that in itself is a blessing.
For the longest time, “woman” was a role I thought I had to audition for constantly. Pressure came within as I was seeing friends becoming mothers. Sometime, I have these negative thoughts that lead to the conclusion that I am less of a woman. I had to earn womanhood by becoming someone’s girlfriend, someone’s wife, someone’s mother. I am an eighties for years this was the narrative served in all media. But, a new generation of women have redefined what it means. And I am joining the movement. It’s not in the titles I carry, but in the truths I live. I am a woman — full, enough, whole — all on my own.
I won’t lie: society doesn’t always make this path easy. Being single, Black, and 40 can feel like you’re walking against the tide. But I’m no longer interested in shrinking myself or performing for approval. These next 40 years? I’m claiming them. And I will not waste them on second-guessing, low self-esteem, comparison, or chasing validation. I’m done.
Done with:
- Living by someone else’s timeline.
- Apologizing for choosing myself.
- Thinking happiness is something that must be earned only after finding a partner.
Instead, I’m making a commitment — to myself. To living fully. Honestly. Joyfully. I’m here to choose what makes me feel alive. To prioritize my peace over performance. To love myself loudly. To surround myself with people who get it — who celebrate me not for who I could be if I changed, but for who I already am.
This chapter is not about loneliness — it’s about liberation. I’m prioritizing friendships and community, the bonds that ground and uplift me. I’m done placing romantic love on a pedestal while ignoring the everyday miracles of connection all around me.
So yes, I’m 40. I’m solo. But I’m not alone. I’m standing in the center of my life, finally seeing it clearly — and it is beautiful.
I’m 40 and hungry for happiness. Not the filtered, fragile kind. But the deep, rooted, real joy that comes from living on your own terms.
And guess what?
That hunger? I’m going to feed it.
Being missflo 