What 38 Taught Me, and What 39 Is Demanding From Me

The year gratitude stopped being a list and became a practice

Thirty-eight was not gentle with me, but it was honest. And honestly, that might have been the medicine I didn’t know I needed.

It was the year my body tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey… you’re not a machine.”
The year my inner child surfaced with her messy little backpack of curiosity and whispered, “Can we play again?”
The year I realised that if I didn’t slow myself down, life would do it for me medically, and without apology.

It was uncomfortable. It was humbling.
And it was the closest I’ve felt to coming home to myself in a long time.

38: The Year of Hobbies (or Rather, The Year I Got Out of My Own Way)

I called 38 my “year of hobbies,” but really, it was my year of unlearning perfection.

As a kid, I never cared about being good at anything. If it looked fun, I dove in off-key singing, lopsided crafts, chaotic curiosity. Somewhere along the way, adulthood convinced me that trying new things was embarrassing unless you arrived fully competent.

So this past year, I rebelled.

I took private singing lessons.
I recorded myself singing and (somehow) posted the videos.
I joined an adult choir.
I bought a piano and let myself be a beginner again.
I crocheted for the first time in years.
I shared more of what I read.
I tutored a friend through a university coding module and remembered, almost accidentally, that I’m still capable. That I’m still skilled. That I still love this stuff.

And then I went back to uni to complete my damn computer science degree.

But because old habits die hard, I didn’t just return to my computer science degree; I enrolled in a post-grad course too. A very on-brand move for someone who is only now learning that “slowing down” doesn’t mean “sign up for two qualifications at once.”

None of this came easily. Every hobby required wrestling with my inner critic, the one who panics at the idea of being mediocre in public. But I kept choosing learning over performance. Curiosity over competence. Joy over achievement.

This blog revival is part of that rebellion, too; creating because it feels good, not because it needs to “be” anything.

The Health Scare That Changed the Tone of the Year

During my annual health check, the doctor found an irregular heartbeat. A follow-up with a cardiologist confirmed I was stage 2 hypertensive.

I wasn’t shocked. My lifestyle hasn’t exactly been an advertisement for ease.

Still, hearing it out loud rearranged something in me. It made every anxious habit louder. It made every late-night overthinking session feel heavier. It made the distance between who I was and who I wanted to be painfully obvious.

It felt like my body was asking a question I’d been avoiding:

If you keep living at this pace, what story are you writing for your future self?

38 Forced the Pause. 39 Requires the Pivot.

With medication and rest, my blood pressure is finally under control. But if 38 was the intervention, 39 is the assignment.

This year is asking for a shift, a real one. Not another productivity plan disguised as self-care. Not another gentle intention that dissolves the minute life gets busy.

Thirty-nine is demanding systems that support me, not the version of me that performs for everyone else.

It’s demanding release:

• the anxious hyper-vigilance 
• the need to control every outcome 
• the habit of defining myself through usefulness 
• the belief that I must always be “on my way” somewhere
  

It’s also demanding presence.

Because the truth is: I’ve built a life I’m proud of… but I haven’t really been in it. I’ve been sprinting through it like a to-do list.

The question that terrifies me most is the simplest one:

Who am I when I’m not producing?

Not “what have I done?”
Not “what’s next?”
Just… who am I?

I don’t know. But I want to.

How Gratitude Stopped Being a List

I used to treat gratitude like a checklist, a neat exercise in positivity. But this year, it shifted into something quieter.

It became practice.
Pause.
Presence.
Small moments I actually let myself feel.

Not planning twelve steps ahead.
Not micromanaging the future.
Just being here, in the one step I’m actually standing in.

It’s embarrassing how difficult “being here” is for me.

But I’m learning.

Phnom Penh: The Sweet, Strange Middle

Life as a foreigner in Phnom Penh is a soft ache I’ve learned to live with. Everything feels temporary: friendships, seasons, plans.

For the first time in my adult life, I had a big friend group. Community. A sense of belonging. And then, as life here tends to go, everyone left.

I stayed.
And I’m still surprised by that.

Some days I feel deeply connected. Other days, I feel like I’m floating slightly above my life, a participant and a spectator at the same time.

I’m realising now that feeling out of place has been a lifelong theme. Not painful, just familiar.

Maybe 38 wasn’t about fixing that. Maybe it was about noticing it without judgment.

So, What Now?

Thirty-eight taught me how deeply I needed rest, hobbies, softness, and presence.
Thirty-nine is asking me to build a life where those things aren’t temporary interventions but permanent fixtures.

A life that doesn’t wait for burnout to demand gentleness.
A life where joy isn’t postponed until the next achievement.
A life I can actually feel myself living.

If you’re reading this…

Maybe you’re standing at the edge of your own new season.
Maybe you’ve outgrown the way you once lived.
Maybe you’re tired, or shifting, or quietly questioning the pace you’ve normalised.

If so, consider this a soft nudge back to yourself, back to your body, back to whatever “next” is asking of you.
I’m figuring it out too.
And maybe that’s enough for now.