Not 27 anymore.

I turn 40 this morning, and honestly—it feels surreal. For so long, I’ve been joking that I was 27. I said it so often I’d sometimes forget my real age. But here I am, four decades in, and it feels different. Not in a bad way—just in a way that makes me stop and really think.

My kids are almost grown now. Watching them step into their own independence has me questioning where I’m headed next. For so long, being “Dad” was the center of my universe. It still is—but with less daily chaos, I’m left facing myself a little more.

Physically, I’m not the same as I once was. Some restrictions and limitations remind me that time has its say whether I like it or not. I don’t drive as consistently anymore. My pace is slower, more intentional. And yet, in that slowness, I’ve found things I love—like gardening. There’s something grounding about putting your hands in the dirt, watching life take root, and knowing you had a hand in it.

I’ve also always liked to write. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just a hobby, or if I should be pushing harder to make it more than that. Maybe this next chapter is about leaning into those passions, even if I don’t have all the answers yet.

Turning 40 doesn’t feel like an ending—it feels like standing at a crossroads. The first half of my life was about surviving, fighting, building, and raising. Maybe the next half is about creating, reflecting, and planting things that will outlast me.

So here I am: 40 years old, still figuring it out. And maybe that’s the point.