The year I will turn 50

"I've never been afraid of age. Every year simply means I was allowed to stay," Kuansiew

Turning 50 this year felt less like a milestone that demanded fireworks and more like an invitation to exhale.

I chose to stay home to ring in the new year, surrounded by a few close friends, instead of heading out into loud countdowns and crowded festivities. It wasn't a compromise or a sign of slowing down—it was a choice that felt deeply, unmistakably me. Come to think of it, I've never liked partying or being swept up in big crowds. Even in my twenties, when youth is supposedly synonymous with noise and chaos, I preferred quiet solitude or the calm, steady presence of people I loved.

This year was no different. In fact, I was genuinely elated when a few friends suggested a small get-together at home. No pressure. No dress code. No expectations beyond showing up as ourselves.

At some point in the evening, someone suggested a mini karaoke session. It was a brilliant idea. We grew up in an era without online distractions, without playlists curated by algorithms, without streaming TV. Music was something we shared—passed around, memorised, sung together. So singing among friends felt natural, almost instinctive.

As the night went on, we found ourselves revisiting songs we used to love when we were younger. The kind that live in your bones, not just your memory. For a moment, time folded in on itself. We weren't fifty. We weren't twenty. We were simply people who had lived, and were still living.

Then someone joked that if others heard the songs we were singing, they'd easily guess our age.

It was meant lightly, and everyone laughed. But beneath the humour, there was a subtle shift—a shared, fleeting awareness. The fear of being found out. The fear of others knowing how old we are.

I found that moment strangely unsettling.

I've never worried about others knowing my age. I've never understood the taboo around disclosing it. When asked, I say it openly. Even when I'm not asked, I announce it anyway—almost as a statement of fact, not confession. So I was genuinely baffled to realise how many people carry a quiet anxiety about this number.

Why are we afraid of our age?

If I look my age, there is nothing to fear.

If I look older than my age, pretending otherwise only makes it worse—you don't look younger, you just look older and evasive.

And if I look younger than my age, why on earth should I hide it? I would proudly announce it.

Age is not a scandal. It's not a flaw to be concealed or corrected.

To me, growing old has never felt like something shameful. Quite the opposite. Growing old is a privilege. Some people didn't get to do it. Some lives were cut short, paused mid-sentence, dreams left unfinished. Every year added is not a loss—it is evidence that we are still here.

Turning 50 doesn't mean I've become less. It means I've accumulated more: more memories, more discernment, more compassion, more clarity about what matters and what doesn't. It means I now choose quiet rooms over loud ones, meaningful conversations over empty noise, and familiar songs over whatever is trending.

And if those songs reveal my age?

So be it.

They also reveal that I lived through them. That I sang them once before, and am still here to sing them again.