Forty AF

I wear my skin now like I’ve earned it, armor made of scars and stories, each mark a map of how far I’ve come.

At forty, I’ve learned the art of fire,

burning quietly, steadily,

no longer an inferno,

but a flame that knows its strength,

softening edges while sharpening truth.

I wear my skin now like I’ve earned it,

armor made of scars and stories,

each mark a map of how far I’ve come.

I’ve hit the middle of my life,

and it’s not a crossroads,

it’s home—

where I don’t wait for permission

to be, to speak, to take up space.

I’ve spent years unbending from cages,

finding my voice in the cracks,

no longer asking for forgiveness

for filling the room with all I am.

This is what forty feels like:

not a sprint, but a settling,

not an end, but a homecoming.

I stand in the middle of myself,

the weight of shoulds falling away,

each stretch mark, each scar

a testament to survival,

a feather-light burden that keeps me grounded

but ready to take flight.

The mirror holds truth now,

and I meet my reflection with open eyes—

no shrinking, no pretending.

Let the gray streak through,

let the edges fray.

I’ll burn as bright as I want,

because this is my time,

the middle of my story,

where I finally know

exactly who I am.