I celebrated my 39th birthday this past week on October 1.

I never grew out of the thrill of my birthday, and because of that, birthdays have a special place in our family. This year, my birthday happened within the swirl of many life changes: My daughter moving to a new school just weeks after starting sixth grade. My son being sick. Launching my next author cohort.

On my birthday morning, my husband got the kids ready for school, and I woke up late—almost 8 a.m.—and had just five minutes to get dressed before rushing to get my daughter to school on time. I’d promised to drop her off because she wanted to spend time with me. As I waved goodbye from the school gates, I couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that I was a thirty-nine-year-old woman dropping her daughter off at middle school.

I came home to a grumpy son who didn’t want to get ready, which caused us to be late to drop him off at school, which caused us to miss the yoga I’d planned to attend that morning. But such is life and parenting, and at thirty-nine, what have I learned about anything if I’m not able to reset expectations?

The morning was lovely nonetheless, with a hike along the cliffs overlooking the sea and a stop at a café with an ocean view, where my husband and I enjoyed fresh pineapple and mint juice and shared a tahini chocolate chip cookie. The sea, the fresh flavors, and the company made for a lovely start to my thirty-ninth year.

Which is where my mind is this morning as I write this: my thirty-ninth year. Next year, I’ll be forty. I’ll be officially out of my thirties, into my next decade.

And while I welcome aging—the changes to my face and skin, the maturity and wisdom aging brings—another side of me feels like it must be someone’s idea of a kooky joke that I’m nearly forty.

At thirty-nine, I feel better than I’ve ever felt. My brain is sharper, my body is healthier. I make better choices, I love better, I show up more for myself and for others. I am not perfect, but I improve every day. I make mistakes, but I have self-awareness now, more in the moment than upon reflection, and I’m quicker to repair when I mess up.

I’m less concerned about achieving than growing, less about hustle than impact. I don’t need others to respect me because I respect me. I know my worth. I know the value I bring to my family, my friends, my clients, my team. I respect myself by treating my body like the gift that it is, and making choices that nurture my body and brain rather than destroy it. I make a conscious choice every day to do something to grow, whether it’s reading a book or listening to a podcast or having a heartfelt conversation with someone I care about.

But at the same time, I feel like I really don’t have anything figured out. Like I’m still a baby in so many ways with so much to learn. Like I still want my mom to come prepare Thanksgiving dinner, because when the heck did I become the holiday host? Like I shouldn’t be the one ordering new socks and communicating with teachers and making sure my house isn’t a hot mess (even though it still is a lot).

I think what has me tripped up on this thirty-nine thing is that there is so much juxtaposition to growing older. A sense of not having “arrived,” yet with a belief growing up that one’s parents had it all figured out. And this sense that by the time I reached forty, I’d be a full-on grown-up with everything sorted and a seamless existence here on planet Earth.

As Olaf puts it, “When you’re older, absolutely everything makes sense!”

Right?

And yet, this week has brought all sorts of questions into the choices I’ve made that led me here, now thirty-nine, feeling like a better and wiser person who has very little truly figured out and a lot of time to go before I do. Somehow, I feel a sense of pressure to make this year count, to arrive at the next decade feeling more sorted, more situated, more . . . adult.

I imagine it feels this way at every major milestone. Thirty felt massive, but it still felt on the young side of adulting. Forty feels even more massive, now firmly planted into being an adult. And fifty? Sixty? Tell me it gets easier as you get older, that you have a stronger sense of yourself as you arrive into these later years.

One thing’s for sure: I know who I am. I am a values-driven woman who operates from her values and a place of deep care for the people around her. And at thirty-nine, that feels worth celebrating.

What about you? What have you learned as you’ve grown, and what do milestone birthdays mean to you? Share with me in the comments. I love learning from you.