Forty Without Candles
Turning forty didn’t break me.
The quiet did.
Not the absence of presents.
Not the absence of a party.
The absence of being witnessed.
I have survived things that statistically swallow women whole.
I have walked out of rooms that were meant to end me.
I have rebuilt from rubble more than once.
I have mothered through fracture.
Loved through scarcity.
Advocated through exhaustion.
I have stood in public spaces and shared truths that once would have silenced me.
And I am still here.
Forty felt like it deserved a candle for that.
But birthdays have never been simple for me.
Growing up, my mother would tell me that the day I was born was the day her life was over.
Imagine carrying that as your origin story.
Every year, instead of hearing, “We’re glad you’re here,” there was tension, conflict, and the quiet implication that my existence had cost someone everything.
My birthday never felt like celebration.
It felt like inconvenience.
There are no sensory memories of safety attached to that date.
No imprint of being chosen.
Only the echo of a message no child should ever have to carry:
“You ruined everything.”
So when forty arrived—after everything I had survived—I think some part of me was waiting for the story to change.
For someone to say,
“You didn’t ruin anything.
You endured everything.
And we’re glad you’re still here.”
The only formal acknowledgement I received was a birthday card from my local Member of Parliament.
There is something almost poetic about that.
The public sphere marked my existence.
The private one stayed quiet.
The grief wasn’t about gifts.
It was about being witnessed.
About the little girl who never heard, “You’re loved,” on her birthday.
About the woman who quietly hoped someone would recognise what it had taken simply to arrive at forty.
There is something uniquely lonely about being the strong one.
People gather when you are bleeding.
They rally when you are broken.
But when you are standing again—working, rebuilding and carrying others—they often assume you no longer need care.
As though resilience replaces the need to be cherished.
It doesn’t.
Forty didn’t make me feel old.
It made me realise how much of my survival had gone unwitnessed.
And yet there is something quietly defiant about that.
Because despite being told my birth ended someone else’s life…
I built my own.
Despite never being celebrated…
I became someone who celebrates others.
Despite being made to feel like a burden…
I became someone who helps carry people through theirs.
That is the work I do now.
Not because my story is extraordinary, but because I know what it feels like to move through life unseen—and I know how powerful it can be when someone simply bears witness.
Forty isn’t a story about the absence of candles.
It’s the story of surviving long enough to want one.
And if no one else lights the candle…
I will.
Written by Bee Marscham