I hadn’t planned to spend my 40th birthday alone.
In fact, I’d always imagined a surprise party, or maybe a quiet dinner surrounded by family and close friends. But when the day crept closer, life had other plans. My two teenage kids were swamped with school and sports, my husband had an unavoidable work trip, and my best friend had just moved three states away.
I could’ve rescheduled. I could’ve waited to “celebrate properly.”
But something in me said… don’t.
So I booked a small Airbnb cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just me. Just for three days. No big agenda. No expectations. Just space. Silence. Solitude.
The day I arrived, it rained. A soft, persistent drizzle that painted the windows in silver streaks and made the pine trees glisten. I lit a fire in the tiny hearth and curled up with a book I hadn’t touched in months.
No one needed me. No emails. No notifications.
It was… quiet. Unnervingly so.
The first night, I cried.
Not because I was sad, but because I realized how long it had been since I had heard my own thoughts without interruption.
No grocery lists. No dentist appointments. No mental tabs left open. Just… me.
And the truth was, I missed myself.
I missed the version of me that used to journal every night. The one who wore bold lipstick just because. The one who dreamed of writing a novel and taking dance lessons. Somewhere between motherhood, marriage, work, and routine, I’d become so many things to so many people—but not much of anything to myself.
The next morning, I hiked a nearby trail. Nothing too ambitious—just enough to get my heart rate up and my mind clear. I passed no one along the way. It was just trees, birdsong, and the sound of leaves crunching under my boots. With each step, I felt something loosening inside me. A grip I didn’t know I had.
At the summit, the fog lifted, and for a moment, I could see valleys stretching for miles.
I stood there, hands on my hips, breathless in the best way.
It hit me then:
This was the first time I had celebrated myself—without needing anyone else to do it for me.
That evening, I made dinner slowly, without rushing or multitasking. I poured a glass of wine, lit candles, and played old jazz records from my college days. I even put on lipstick.
I danced, barefoot and clumsy, around the cabin floor. I laughed—loud and real. Not because something was funny, but because I felt free. I felt like me again.
I wrote in my journal that night:
“This is the woman I was before everyone else needed her.
She’s still here. She’s still mine.”
By the time I packed up to leave on the third morning, I felt lighter. Not because my problems had vanished, but because I’d remembered where to find myself when things got heavy.
Taking that solo trip didn’t make me a new woman.
It reminded me that I was never lost—just buried beneath layers of obligation and noise.
And now? I make space for her—the real me—every chance I get. A quiet coffee before sunrise. A walk without earbuds. A moment in the mirror to put on lipstick for no one but myself.
Because turning 40 didn’t mark the beginning of aging.
It marked the beginning of awakening.
Final Thought:
Sometimes, the most important journey you take isn’t to a new place—but back to yourself. You don’t need a crowd to celebrate your life. You just need the courage to sit with your own soul—and listen when it speaks.
