Lisa O
Something shifts when you hit fifty. It’s not dramatic or sudden. You just start noticing things about yourself that weren’t there before—small changes in how you think and what matters. The world looks different from this side of the milestone. You see patterns you missed at forty. These discoveries sneak up on you over coffee or during a quiet afternoon when nobody else is watching.
You stop explaining yourself.
There was a time when you’d defend every choice you made. Now you don’t bother. Someone doesn’t like how you spend your weekends? That’s fine. You learned that most people aren’t actually asking for an explanation. They’re just filling the silence. This becomes obvious at family gatherings, where everyone has an opinion about your haircut. You smile and pour more wine. The urge to justify yourself simply disappeared somewhere between forty-nine and now.
Silence becomes comfortable.
The constant need to fill every pause is gone. You can sit in a room with someone and not say anything for ten minutes. It doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Sometimes the best moments happen when nobody’s talking. You find yourself sitting on the porch with a neighbor. You watch the sun go down. Neither of you speaks for maybe twenty minutes. When they leave, they say it was nice. You agree.
Your body tells the truth.
You can’t push through exhaustion as easily as you used to. Your body stops letting you ignore its signals. That second glass of wine will cost you tomorrow. Skipping sleep means you’ll pay for it all week. You try to stay up past midnight to finish a project, only to spend the next three days feeling like you’ve been hit by something heavy. Your body doesn’t negotiate anymore. It just presents the bill.
Old friendships need less maintenance.
Your college roommate calls after not talking for almost a year. Within maybe a minute, you’re both laughing about that one professor and his brown jacket, which he wore constantly. There’s no catching-up phase where you explain what you’ve been doing. You just pick up talking. The gap doesn’t seem to matter. Real friendships apparently just wait around until you get back to them.
You know what you’re not good at.
That guitar has been taking up closet space since 2014. You kept saying you’d start practicing, but around year six or seven, you stopped actually believing it. Piano lessons aren’t happening either. The guitar goes to Goodwill on a Saturday morning, and the empty spot on the shelf looks better than the guilt did. You focus on things you’re already decent at instead.
Mornings matter more than nights.
Waking up early happens without needing to set an alarm anymore. Your body just does it around six. The house is quiet, and you make coffee and sit near the window. Light comes through the trees in a way that feels different than afternoon light. Staying out past ten lost its appeal, but it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when that happened. That late-night energy just disappeared. Mornings feel easier because nothing’s piled up yet.
You care less about being right.
Arguments feel pointless now. Someone disagrees with you about which route to take to the airport, and halfway through explaining your way, you realize you don’t actually care. You tell them to go their way. You get there around the same time anyway. Proving points takes energy you’d rather save. Most disagreements aren’t worth what they cost. Peace beats being right.
Food tastes different.
You eat more slowly now. You notice flavors you rushed past before. That tomato from the farmer’s market actually tastes like something. Fast food doesn’t have the same impact as it used to. You’d rather have one good meal than three mediocre ones. You spend twenty minutes eating an apple on a Tuesday afternoon and just sitting there. When did apples get so complicated? Or maybe you finally slowed down enough to pay attention.
Comfort beats style every time.
Those dress shoes haven’t been worn in months. If it hurts to wear, you should stop doing it. You bought sneakers that look ridiculous, but your feet don’t hurt after an hour. Wore them to a wedding last spring. Nobody said anything. It turns out that most people are too worried about their own feet to notice yours. Comfort wins now.
You need less stuff.
The clutter starts bothering you in ways it never did before. Full closets feel suffocating, rather than abundant. You spend a Saturday going through boxes in the garage and can’t believe how much got saved for no reason. Six bags go straight to donation. The empty shelf space afterward feels like you can breathe again. Plates from 2008 that never got used. Clothes that don’t fit. All of it is just taking up room you’d rather have back.
Weather affects your mood.
Gray skies do something to you now that they didn’t at forty. Sunny days feel necessary instead of nice. Rain means more than just staying inside. It settles into your mood and sits there heavy. You notice yourself checking forecasts before making plans. Outdoor lunch is moved to Saturday when you see clouds on Sunday. Winter drags on longer. When did weather start mattering this much? You can’t remember exactly. It just does now.
You forget things mid-sentence.
Words disappear right when you need them. You’re telling a story and suddenly can’t remember the name of that actor everyone knows. It sits right there on the edge of your brain, but won’t come forward. Three hours later, it’ll pop into your head while you’re doing dishes. You stand in the grocery store for five minutes trying to remember why you walked down the cereal aisle. You never figure it out.
Time moves faster now.
Weekends vanish before they start. Wasn’t it just January? Now it’s somehow October. The years don’t crawl anymore. They sprint past while you’re trying to catch your breath. Kids you remember from when they were toddlers are graduating from college. The restaurant you visited last month opened seven years ago. You look at photos from what felt like recent trips, and they’re all dated 2019. Where did everything go?
You finally understand your parents.
All those things they said that made no sense before suddenly clicked into place. The worry. The weird habits. The way they valued quiet over excitement. You hear their words coming out of your mouth. You catch yourself saying something your dad used to say about picking your battles. The same phrase you rolled your eyes at twenty years ago. Turns out he knew what he was talking about all along.
You’re more yourself than ever.
Things you used to hide no longer bother you much. You stopped trying to fit where you clearly don’t belong. People’s opinions weigh less than they did at forty. All that time spent being someone else now feels like a waste of time. Your laugh got louder. You talk less when there’s nothing worth saying. Friday nights are whatever you want them to be. Fifty permitted you to stop performing.