Boundless and Unfiltered

Tag: 40 year old

  • The 5am Version of Me Knows Things I Don’t Yet Know

    There’s a very specific kind of silence that only exists at 5am.

    It’s not peaceful in the cinematic, soft-focus, birds-starting-to-sing kind of way. Not at first.

    It’s more like absence.
    Of noise. Of people. Of identity.

    And for a moment, you meet yourself without anything added.

    There’s a negotiation that happens in that space:

    Why are we awake. Why are we doing this. Who decided this was a good idea.

    But I go anyway.

    I run. I train. I move.

    Alone.

    No notifications. No meetings. No one needing anything. No one performing urgency at me through a screen.

    Just the gym lights. The road. The rhythm of movement.

    And then something shifts.

    Not dramatically. Not emotionally.

    Just… the mind stops resisting being there.

    And in that space, it becomes available.

    The untangling you don’t plan for

    There’s a kind of mental static that builds quietly.

    Not chaos. Not crisis.

    Just accumulation.

    Unfinished thoughts. Conversations replayed too many times. Decisions not fully owned. Questions that stayed open because there was never enough stillness to close them properly.

    And then I run.

    Or train.

    Or move.

    And something simple happens.

    The noise loses structure.

    Not all at once. Not in insight or revelation.

    More like tension leaving a system that no longer needs to hold it.

    A conversation stops repeating itself.

    A decision stops feeling heavy.

    A question stops demanding urgency.

    Not because it’s solved.

    But because I’m no longer standing in relation to it the same way.

    Anxiety doesn’t vanish. It loses authority.

    I don’t want to romanticise this.

    Nothing disappears.

    Stress still exists. Anxiety still exists. Life still exists.

    But in motion, they lose command.

    They stop presenting themselves as truth.

    They become what they actually are: mental weather passing through something that doesn’t need to react to every change in temperature.

    And something in me stops participating.

    I leave it there.

    Not as a decision.

    More as a natural release.

    Like setting something down because I’ve carried it long enough.

    What replaces the noise

    What replaces it is not clarity.

    Not insight.

    Not resolution.

    It’s presence.

    The simplest possible state.

    Unedited. Unperformed. Unexplained.

    There’s curiosity too, but not the kind that interrogates life.

    The kind that allows it to unfold without resistance.

    Less grasping. Less interpreting. Less forcing meaning onto everything.

    Just being there for it.

    The 5am meeting

    It turns out the most honest meeting I have each day isn’t on my calendar.

    It starts at 5am.

    No agenda.

    No slides.

    No performance.

    Just a return.

    Like arriving fully present in mind, body and soul onto a yoga mat, before you begin.

    Like Roark in that moment of stillness before the world asks him to explain himself.

    Like entering cold water before thought has a chance to resist.

    A quiet arrival back into myself before the world asks me to be anything else.

    Not to fix myself.

    Not to prove myself.

    Just to meet myself – properly.

    And somehow, every single time, I leave with exactly what I needed.

    Not answers.

    Just that feeling of being fully back inside my own life again.

  • “Child-free, drama-free, Golden Retriever-filled bliss”

    By a happy, child-free, dog-loving 40-year-old woman

    There’s a curious thing that happens when you hit 40 and you’re a woman without children. You become… a bit of a mystery. Or, depending on who you’re talking to, a tragic figure in need of sympathy, spiritual guidance, or possibly a casserole.

    I can’t tell you how often this plays out: I meet someone new — life does its thing — we exchange the usual pleasantries, they clock my husband and me floating along in our bubble of genuine harmony and happiness, and then — boom — “Do you have kids?”

    As if that’s the only logical next step in the fairytale.

    I say, “No.”

    That’s it. No explanations. No awkward chuckle. No scrambling to soften the blow with a chirpy “…but we’re trying!” or “We’ve got nieces!” Just a calm, unapologetic no.

    And then — I wait.

    The reactions are quite something. A squirm. A sympathetic head tilt. A confused blink. Sometimes even a gentle pat on the arm, like I’ve just shared news of a tragic loss. It’s as if I casually mentioned I was once in a cult that banned fun.

    Occasionally, I toss in a cheerful follow-up: “But I do have two dogs!” hoping to steer the conversation toward my happy place — golden retrievers. Fluffy, loyal, slightly dopey, perfect. I am ready — ready — to discuss their personalities, grooming routines, snack preferences, and how one of them sleeps like a drunken starfish.

    But instead of joy, I usually get, “Ohhh, they’re your fur babies.”

    No. They’re just… my dogs. I love them. I didn’t get dogs instead of kids. I got dogs because I love dogs. I always have.

    I got them because I’ve always wanted big, fluffy, affectionate shadows who follow me everywhere and love me unconditionally. Frankly, I trust them more than most people.

    Now, this might be controversial — brace yourselves — but I’ve never felt maternal. I’ve never cooed over a baby in a pram. I’ve never picked up a tiny onesie and felt my ovaries squeal. That maternal yearning? That biological clock everyone talks about? Mine never started ticking. If anything, it took one look around and said, “Hard pass.”

    Maybe it was my upbringing. I had a mother who made parenting sound like a never-ending endurance challenge with no medals. She spoke candidly about how hard it was — the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the mental load. Nothing about it sounded appealing to me. It stuck. Possibly permanently.

    But, maybe I was just born this way. While other little girls were dreaming about weddings and babies, I was dreaming of mountains, forests, and giant dogs with hearts of gold. I didn’t want a perfect white wedding — I didn’t want the white dress and the baby carriage — I wanted a partner who I luckily found in my husband, along with hiking boots and a canine sidekick to follow me to the ends of the earth.

    And guess what? That’s exactly what I have. Two glorious golden retrievers, an extraordinary husband who is my best mate, and a life that feels full, joyful, and entirely mine.

    I don’t feel like something’s missing. I don’t wake up wondering what my baby would’ve looked like. My life’s purpose was never to be a mum — not because I failed, but because I chose differently.

    My purpose? To live kindly. To love deeply. To work hard, show up, keep growing, and enjoy the ride. That’s enough for me. More than enough.

    So to all the well-meaning folks who respond to my child-free status with confusion, concern, or a look that says “you poor thing”, as if I’ve said that I have lost a limb please know — I’m good. I’m more than good. I like my freedom, my sleep, my savings, and my ability to leave the house without packing snacks and wet wipes.

    My life may not fit the usual mould, but it fits me perfectly. I have love, loyalty, laughter, and dog hair on every piece of clothing I own — and honestly, that’s more than enough.

    And in case you’re wondering — yes, my dogs do have their own Instagram. Curious about my “fur babies”? Just say the word. I’ll pull out 73 photos, a treat pouch, and possibly a slideshow. You’ve been warned.