Why Your 40s Might Be the Most Liberating Decade Yet

From Dreading It to Loving It

When I was in my twenties, the way the media portrayed women in their forties had me convinced I’d morph into a washed-up supporting character in a bad sitcom. You know the one. She’s neurotic, drinks too much wine, has a thankless job, a husband who forgot she exists, and her big personality is always the punchline. Her best days? Behind her. Her youth? Gone. Her waistline? Missing in action.

And god forbid she has a wrinkle or speaks her mind. Then she’s the villain. The unhinged one, the desperate cougar or the sad spinster. Honestly, the only options available seemed to be invisible, bitter, or trying to claw back relevance with aquarobics and a pixie cut. No thank you. I watched those storylines and thought, “Is that really all that’s waiting for me?”

So yeah, I panicked. I imagined myself crying into beige cardigans, collecting scented candles I wasn’t allowed to light, and Googling neck firming creams at 3am. The message was clear: once you hit forty, the fun stops, the decline begins, and your only role is background support while the 25-year-olds sparkle. Spoiler: they were wrong. So very wrong.

The truth? Ageing is the cheat code to becoming unfuckwithable. It’s waking up one day and realising you have zero tolerance for nonsense, bad eyebrows, or people who think pineapple belongs on pizza*. There’s freedom in no longer caring if Jennifer from Operations thinks you’re a bit much. Because yes, I am too much. And I adore it.

*ok, so I am currently eating a Hawaiian Pizza, but you get the vibe.

You Stop Caring (In the Best Way)

Twenties you? People-pleasing disaster with sore feet from too much clubbing in 5-inch heels* and a nervous system permanently fried from trying to be chill about everything. You said yes when you meant no, wore dresses you couldn’t sit down in, and dated people who made you cry in public toilets. The chaos was strong, but the self-worth? Non-existent.

Forties you? No longer available for rubbish. You wear shoes you can run in**, you leave parties when you’re tired, you delete numbers with no fanfare. And you eat carbs in public and don’t suck your stomach in. Honestly, it’s like being reborn, but with a better wardrobe and actual savings.

And the best part? You don’t even feel bad about it. You stop craving that gold star from people who wouldn’t notice if you were abducted by aliens. Instead, you make space for joy, naps, and wildly inappropriate group chats. You’re no longer surviving – you’re thriving. You’re moisturised, unbothered, and sipping green tea like it’s holy water.

*Millenial girlies, you know the shoes I mean.
**Happy to confirm I can run in 4-inch heels.

You Finally Learn What Works for You

In my twenties, I thought success was a colour-coded planner, a hot boyfriend with commitment issues, and a kitchen with a wine fridge. I was out here chasing aesthetic over authenticity, saying things like “I’m just really into grind culture” while crying into my salad.

But now? Success is a fully charged phone, no weekend plans, and a skincare routine that makes me look legally suspicious. I don’t care if I’m not That Girl anymore. I want to be this girl. The one who drinks matcha latters in her fluffy robe and mutters affirmations while yelling at the cat to stop climbing the screen door.

My forties are about honouring what actually feels good. My body isn’t an aesthetic project, and my home doesn’t need to be Pinterest-perfect. I’ve stopped curating myself for the male gaze and started living for the chaos goblin in my soul. She’s thriving. She’s got boundaries and wine.

Boundaries Become Your Best Friends

Boundaries used to terrify me. I thought if I set one, someone might… not like me? Gasp! So I spent my twenties shape-shifting like a social chameleon with anxiety. I was nice. Too nice. “Walk all over me” nice. Especially with men. Now? If I’m setting a boundary, it’s coming with glitter, a PowerPoint, and a firm yet loving, manicured, middle finger.

I don’t ghost people anymore. I haunt them. Kindly. With honesty. I say no with my whole chest, and I don’t dilute my needs to make others comfortable. If my peace feels off, I trust it like my cat trusts the sunniest spot in the house.

Boundaries have made my life feel like a VIP lounge. Not everyone gets access. Not because I’m snobby, but because I’ve realised my energy is sacred. I don’t want to feel like I’ve run a marathon after a coffee catch-up. I want reciprocal friendships, soft mornings, and people who get it. Or at least pretend to.

Plot Twist: Hustle Culture Is a Scam

Success in my twenties was a weird pyramid scheme of burnout. Get the job, the man, the flat with the feature wall. Cry in the shower. Repeat. I thought productivity equalled worth, and if I just worked harder, I’d finally feel like I mattered.

Then I hit my forties and realised… I don’t dream of labour. I dream of mornings without alarm clocks, a fridge full of nice cheese, and work that doesn’t make me want to fake a Wi-Fi outage – I want fulfilment, not hustle. Passion, not performance reviews.

Now, success is simple: Am I peaceful? Do I feel good in my body? Do I laugh daily, ideally at my own jokes? That’s it. I’ve left the rat race to the rats. I’m over here building a pillow fort of joy and refusing to trade it for a toxic promotion and a stress ulcer.

You Become Your Own Safe Space

Back then, I looked for safety in all the wrong places. In bad boyfriends, unstable friendships, and Brown Brothers Moscato*. I thought being loved meant being chosen by someone else. Now I know the real magic? Choosing yourself. Every damn day.

I’ve learned to self-soothe without self-sabotage. I know what calms me, what triggers me, and what snacks bring me back to life**. I don’t abandon myself anymore – I show up. Even when I’ve had a tantrum. Even when I’ve eaten crisps for dinner. Again.

There’s something wild and wonderful about becoming your own home. You’re no longer a guest in your life. You’re the host. And yes, the Wi-Fi password is probably something unhinged, but the vibe? Impeccable.

*If you know you know. Brown Brothers Mascato is basically Alcho-Pops in wine form.
**Cheezels.

I didn’t rewrite the rules of ageing. I set them on fire and danced in the ashes.

Final Word? This Decade is Yours

Your forties aren’t a slow decline. They’re the plot twist. The rebrand. They’re the feral heroine arc. You’re not falling apart. You’re finally falling into place. You’ve got the wisdom of lived experience and the zero-shits energy of someone who’s seen too much to care what the PTA thinks. And honestly? That combo is dangerous in the best way.

You’re no longer the understudy in your own life, waiting backstage while everyone else takes the spotlight. You are the main character now. Slightly chaotic, occasionally tearful, beautifully unfiltered. You’ve stopped shaving your personality to fit into spaces that were never made for you. And guess what? It shows. In the glow, the boundaries. In the joy that feels like it was made just for you.

So here’s to the unbrushed hair, the unbothered bossom, and the unmatched freedom of choosing yourself over and over again. You are not past your prime. You are your prime. And baby, it’s only just getting started.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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