I am trying to make peace with being fifty years old. 

When I turned fifty last May, I moved into a new Nielsen demographic, as if I was suddenly a less avid viewer, more resistant to buying certain products, and not as quick to tune into the hot new show.  Actually, I've been that way for years. It didn't start with being fifty. Photo by Wonderlane

When I turned thirty years old, it was a celebration of maturity for someone who has always looked ten years younger than her age.  I was no longer the new kid on the block. I could claim a certain amount of experience that came with being a working professional. It felt great.

When hit forty, I knew that I was coming into my own, not just as a professional, but as a person.  I turned the corner from being a competent engineer to that of a whole person, with talents and skills that moved beyond the technical, to something more meaningful.  Forties were the decade for blossoming.  Photo by jmurawski.

Now that I'm fifty, I'm not sure what to feel other than lost in the wilderness, stripped of my favorite blanket and pocket knife. Society doesn't encourage the fifty somethings like they do the twenty somethings or thirty somethings. The forties are the time of claiming the trophy, harvesting the crop, stepping into the coveted position.  But fifties?  In your fifties, you are expected to already "be there", not still striving for being there. Who ever heard of an "up and coming" fifty-year old?  If you haven't already "arrived", it's unlikely to happen.

At fifty, I'm struggling for role models who aren't trying to look younger, or wiser, or something other than who they are. 

At sixty and seventy, you find people who joke about being older.  Nora Ephron wrote the book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, when she was in her sixties.  At fifty, I don't hear jokes. I see scurrying and hiding.  Find me a fifty something who proclaims loudly in a bar, "I'm in my fifties and loving it!" and I'll find you a woman who delights in finding the next crevice-producing wrinkle in her face.  Photo by 85mm.ch.

Many of us in our fifties have kids in college. It's a reminder of how we are not young anymore, that we aren't hip new parents with small children.  On Parent's Weekend, we are the old people visiting the young people.  Our kids are just hitting the parties at 11pm on a Saturday night, while we are getting ready for bed. 

I'm trying to make peace with being fifty years old.

Last year, I started a fitness routine, Fit by Fifty, that led me to the gym several times a week, had me eating salads for lunch and enjoying it, and losing part of the tummy that had expanded into new territory (a la West Bank settlement) over the last decade. It's been my way of turning back the clock.  But let's not kid ourselves. I feel it in my half decade old body, the one that doesn't move as gracefully, heal as quickly, or bend into a yoga position like it used to.  At fifty, my body complains more loudly.

In my fifties, I must make a fateful decision–whether to go down the road of dyeing my hair for years to come or let the gray hairs overtake my head, like a patch of prarie land being returned to natural grasses. The first time I applied dye on my "virgin" hair, it looked great.  I wondered why I hadn't done so sooner.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself as I looked ten years prior.  The next application was not so pretty, literally.  And now, I'm wondering if over time, the results will only get worse.  Photo by L. C. Nottaasen

I'm trying to make peace with being fifty years old.

My husband is fifty-five. Age does not seem to bother him.  In fact, it might be something akin to what my sixty-ish girl friend describes as the "why bother" syndrome.  By the time you are fifty-five, you are too far away from your forties to complain or yearn for something different. Growing older is a fait accomplit.

In my fifties, it's up to me to create the roadmap, to define what the decade is about, to set the standard for myself internally and externally.  That's the beauty and the curse.  Ambiguity provides an opening for playing it my way, instead of society's way.  So here's what I want my fifties to be about:

• Deepening my work. Career guru Pamela Slim likes to talk about one's "body of work".  This next decade is time to shape my body of work, whether it's in the form of writing about the human experience, coaching professionals through career transitions, or doing an Internet talk show.  The theme of my story comes into sharp relief through my body of work.  While I tried lots of different things in my forties, including starting three LLCs and completing countless projects, I want my fifties to reflect an overarching vision, where years later, someone can say, "That's what her life was about."

• Opening up options for how work is done.  This is a time to discover a gentler rhythm in life, where a moment of patience turns into a moment of savoring.  The drive to finish a project will be balanced with the enjoyment of the experience.  I want my work schedule to be best friends with the rest of my life. 

• Taking more risks.  I want my fifties to be a time when I have nothing to prove, other than the fact that my work in the world is what keeps me alive and fresh.  Stepping out is a way of doing that.  Looking back on this time should engender pride in doing things differently, not to be contrary, but because the situation was ripe for experimentation and innovation. 

• Finding grace in a changing body.  Not to get squeamish, but menopause will be here before the decade is out.  I don't expect to become pear-shaped or grow a third head, but I do expect that my body will feel a lot different.  I want to navigate these bodily changes with grace (and a few hormone supplements or whatever medical science deems appropriate at that point.) 

I feel better already.  I'm starting to make peace with being fifty. (This picture was taken the day I turned fifty.)