The ‘mid-life crisis’ does exist, I think it’s just named wrong.

To everyone that’s recently turned thirty, hold onto your hats — next week you turn forty! It’s clear that those numbers don’t stack up, but hear me out.

I recently turned 40. The big 4–0. And to be honest, that number always seemed so far into the future that I never truly thought the day would come. And now I’m wondering just how quickly I’ll get to fifty, or sixty? *insert screaming-face emoji here*

It’s not the number that bothers me but the fact that, inevitably, my time as a living, breathing human will eventually come to an end. Fact of life, right? But I’m acutely aware of this now, and some days it’s all I think about.

No matter what I do, I can’t change this fact (oh, do hurry up, Science), but my anxious mind grabs hold of this revelation and stuffs it in my face — daily.

For a self-confessed control freak, this isn’t good news. I’ve lived with anxiety most of my adult life, so when you layer that anxiety on top of my ‘mortality awareness’, things can spiral out of control — fast. Some days it’s overwhelming just how much I worry about death. My own death (and–selfishly–how much I’d miss out on), the death of either of my kids (and how I’d need to find a way to live without them), the death of my husband (and how much of a hole he’d leave), the…