Thirty-Five Days to Forty-One A soft promise, whispered to the self.

I’m not quite forty-one—

just close enough to feel it come.
Thirty-five days on the edge of change,
a quiet turn,
a life rearranged.

I stand here now, not lost, not loud,
but softer, wiser, less needing the crowd.
Not broken—just reshaped by years,
of love and doubt, of dreams and fears.

I look behind, and what I see—
an earnest, younger version of me.
Always trying to wear every crown,
to make them proud, to not let down.

As a child, I wanted to please,
as a partner, I fought for peace.
As a parent, I gave and gave,
as a daughter, I learned to behave.

At work, I ran to prove my worth,
forgot to rest, forgot my earth.
Even love, I wore like a badge,
as if being chosen made me match.

But now—
now something has changed in me.
Not loudly,
but slowly,
like morning tea.

I no longer crave to be understood
by those who never truly could.
No more noise, no more race,
I’m returning gently to my own space.

The next 35 days are mine to claim—
not to regret,
not to blame.
But to forgive, to thank, to just be,
to honour the journey that sculpted me.

I’m not angry, not even sad.
Just done pretending, done feeling bad.
I’ve carried so much, worn too many skins,
but now—
now a softer story begins.

At forty-one, I won’t shout my truth,
but I’ll live it,
quiet and smooth.
I won’t beg for room in someone’s mind,
I’ll just take my place, calm and kind.

This is not a rebellion,
not a wall I build.
This is just me—
no longer unfulfilled.

So when I cross that line in time,
let the bells be soft,
let the light be mine.
No grand stage, no wild applause—
just me, arriving,
as I always was.