Forty-Five 3/1/2026

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Today is my birthday. In some ways that means a great deal to me, and in other ways it doesn’t at all. Every year I find a new angle from which to look at this day. It is an ever-evolving occasion. And now I am sitting here debating whether or not I really want to bore you with a birthday piece. However, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. If I’ve been handed a topic, I suppose I ought to use it. The real question is: how do I write about my own birthday without sounding terribly self-involved? It seems like a fine opportunity for brevity… but knowing me, I’ll ramble anyway.

I turn forty-five today. That is a striking number. The other day, while in the shower—where age feels particularly honest—I found myself thinking about how alarmingly close I am to the half-century mark. That is not a thought I can properly compute. How has this happened? It seems unfathomable that I have lived this long—not because I am some daredevil miraculously surviving death-defying feats. I assure you, it is quite the opposite. I am not a risk-taker. My life is rather exemplary of that fact.

And yet, forty-five years of memories sit somewhere inside me. That seems impossible to grasp. I feel like I remember so little of it. Is that just me? Does anyone else marvel at how many years lie behind them while so much of it feels like a blur?

Then came the realization that forty-five is half of ninety. Ninety feels like a generously ripe old number. We hear so much about the “mid-life crisis,” and though I don’t wish to be morbid, there is a very real possibility that I may have already passed that middle mark. That is sobering.

Now, in 2020, I did color my hair red. I like to call that my mid-life crisis moment. I was thirty-nine. Did I subconsciously know? Have I prophetically scheduled my departure from this mortal coil at seventy-eight? It seems unlikely. I could very well be one of those spry souls who make it to triple digits. My parents turn seventy-six and eighty-three this year and are as active as ever, so longevity is not out of the realm of genetic possibility.

My hips, however, would like a word.

Still, aging has its bright spots. Chief among them: cake. This year’s selection is a glorious devil’s food cheesecake cake. A hulking masterpiece with devil’s food layers on top and bottom and cheesecake nestled in between. It is cloaked in chocolate buttercream and festooned with chocolate chips. It is one of the few desserts I have ever tasted that required me to brace myself lest I swoon under the sheer majesty of it. So yes—there are definite advantages to birthdays.

There are also cards and gifts, which are always lovely. At my age, I mostly receive money and shop for myself, which is probably for the best since I rarely know what I want until I stumble upon it. I sometimes feel I ought to be too old for parties. However, should someone feel a spontaneous urge to throw me a very grown-up celebration, I would not object—provided I am appropriately dressed.

Most likely, this year will unfold much like the others: good food, magnificent dessert, cards in the mail, and a bit of shopping soon thereafter. And if I’m honest, that sounds perfectly lovely. Perhaps that is a sign of my age—that being surrounded by those I love with something delicious on my plate sounds like about as good a time as I can imagine.

My hair has been naturally grey for decades. My joints are increasingly opinionated. I may as well embrace it.

Forty-five feels less like a crisis and more like a quiet settling into who I already am.

And I rather like her.