Turning 44: Becoming More of Myself
I turned forty-four this year.
The number itself didn’t feel dramatic or frightening. It arrived quietly, the way most real milestones do — somewhere between morning coffee and the ordinary rhythm of a normal day. No sudden transformation. No lightning bolt of revelation. Just a gentle awareness that I am further along the path than I once was.
And strangely, I feel more like myself than ever.
Not a newer version.
Not an improved version.
Just… more fully me.
A Different Kind of Birthday Reflection
Birthdays in our younger years often carry a sense of urgency. There is always something we think we should have done by now, something we meant to become, something we hoped would look different. It can feel like a quiet measuring stick held up against an imagined timeline.
But this birthday felt different.
Instead of looking at what hasn’t happened, I found myself noticing what has settled into place. The life I have built. The home I tend. The family that fills my days. The small rituals and rhythms that now feel like the true shape of my life.
At forty-four, I am less interested in becoming someone else and more interested in becoming a deeper, steadier version of who I already am.
There is relief in that.
And a surprising kind of freedom.
Letting Go of the Performance
For much of my life, being a woman felt like a kind of performance. Not always in an obvious way, but in the small, persistent expectations that hum beneath everything:
Stay youthful.
Stay polished.
Stay appealing.
Stay acceptable.
Some of those expectations are loud and cultural. Others are quiet and personal, picked up along the way without ever really choosing them. They live in magazine covers, advertisements, passing comments, and the subtle comparisons we make without even meaning to.
I don’t say this with resentment. It’s simply the air most of us have breathed for years.
But somewhere over the last few seasons, something in me softened and settled. I stopped feeling the same urgency to keep up with a standard that never really belonged to me in the first place.
This year, I’ve allowed my hair to grow as it grows. I’ve stopped feeling the need to constantly adjust or correct the natural changes that come with time. Not as a statement. Not as rebellion. Just as a quiet shift toward accepting the person I see in the mirror.
I still care about how I present myself. I still enjoy feeling put together. I still take pride in how I move through the world. But there is less pressure now to chase an idea of youth that was never meant to last forever.
Less maintenance for the sake of approval.
More care for the sake of comfort and self-respect.
Not a Judgment, Just a Choice
This isn’t a manifesto against beauty routines, hair dye, skincare, or any of the countless ways women choose to care for themselves. Those things can be joyful, expressive, creative. For many, they are a form of self-care or personal style.
There is nothing wrong with any of that.
This is simply about my own relationship with myself.
At some point, I realized I was ready to stop adjusting myself to meet an invisible standard and start living in a way that feels more honest to who I already am. Not because I’ve rejected beauty, but because my definition of it has softened and widened.
I am less interested in appearing timeless and more interested in being present.
The Quiet Confidence of Midlife
There is a particular kind of confidence that begins to grow in a woman in her forties. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It doesn’t demand attention.
It is a steadier thing.
It comes from years lived, mistakes made, lessons learned, and the slow realization that most of the things we once worried about were never as important as they seemed. The need to prove yourself begins to fade. The need to compare softens. The urgency to keep up with everyone else’s timeline loses its grip.
At forty-four, I don’t feel finished.
I don’t feel past my prime.
I don’t feel invisible.
I feel rooted.
Like a tree that has stopped trying to grow quickly and instead grows steadily, ring by ring, season by season. There is comfort in that kind of growth. And strength.
Aging as a Witch
If there is one thing the old ways have always understood, it is that aging is not a failure. It is a deepening.
In many traditional and earth-centered paths, age is associated with wisdom, steadiness, and perspective. A woman who has lived through many seasons carries a kind of knowing that cannot be rushed or replicated.
Aging, in this sense, feels less like decline and more like stepping further into the role I was always meant to inhabit.
A hearth-keeper.
A watcher of seasons.
A woman who knows her rhythms.
Not rushing to be seen.
Not scrambling to keep up.
Simply tending the life in front of me.
There is something quietly powerful about allowing yourself to age without apology. Not hiding it. Not fighting it. Not performing youth as long as possible. Just living.
Choosing What to Keep
As I move through this season of life, I find myself asking a simple question:
What feels true for me now?
Not what felt true at twenty.
Not what is expected at forty.
Not what anyone else is doing.
Just what feels aligned with the woman I am becoming.
I want to keep the parts of myself that feel genuine. The rhythms that feel sustainable. The appearance that feels honest. The life that feels lived, not performed.
And I am learning, slowly, to let the rest fall away without drama or self-criticism.
There Is No Single Way to Age
Every woman finds her own path through time.
Some embrace glamour and reinvention.
Some embrace simplicity.
Some move between both.
There is room for all of it.
My own path is simply bending toward ease, authenticity, and a quieter kind of confidence. Toward being recognizable to myself when I look in the mirror — not because I have preserved youth, but because I have stopped trying to outrun time altogether.
Becoming More Myself
Turning forty-four did not make me someone new.
It made me more willing to be exactly who I already am.
Less filtered.
Less adjusted.
Less concerned with whether I am doing womanhood “correctly.”
More grounded.
More present.
More at home in my own life.
There is a certain magic in that. Not the dramatic kind. The steady, everyday kind that comes from living honestly inside your own skin.
If aging is simply the slow process of becoming more fully ourselves, then perhaps there is nothing to fear in it at all.
Perhaps it is something to welcome.
~ Hearthblossom
If this reflection resonated with you, you might enjoy a few kindred pieces: Marriage, Motherhood & Magic: A Reflection, The Pull Toward What We Can’t Fully Know and The Shape of the Year: A Calm Guide to the Wheel of the Year.
