Birthday Letter: Gemma, Aged 40
A Letter to My Future Self: The Birthday Journal Tradition
Dear Gemma,
So today we pass another milestone. One that, for weeks, filled me with dread and a little self-denial. Forty.
Shouldn’t I have achieved more by now? Shouldn’t I have ticked off the goals, the big dreams, the things people I look up to already have? Cue: comparison, doom spiral, self-loathing. Lovely birthday vibes.
So, this is my first birthday letter. Forty years old and, for a lot of moments if I’m honest, I almost didn’t bother. I thought: too late, Gemma, there’s no point in starting now. But then it hit me - when I’m sixty, that will be twenty letters. Twenty chances to capture gratitude, chaos, dreams, prosecco, and cake. Twenty opportunities to immortalise me - not for self-worship, but for acknowledgement of who I am today. Owning my journey, being proud of myself, loving myself, and most importantly, letting my children know how much they were (and still are) loved. So they’ll always know how much I adored them, how grateful I was, and how proud I’ll always be to be Mum.
And because starting now is never too late!
The dreamer in me imagined a beautiful leather journal, kept perfectly tidy in my neatest handwriting, something passed down through generations. But let’s be real: I’d lose it, spill coffee (or prosecco) on it, or tuck it “somewhere safe” never to be seen again. Or worse, Theo, age three going on thirteen, would cover it in Picasso-level scribbles before I’d finished page one. So digital it is. Safer. Shareable. And it means all my ducklings will get to read it one day, not just the one who inherits the dusty, coffee-stained journal from my bedside drawer.
And that feels right. Because I want them to see the real me: not just Mum, Wife, or Chief of Packed Lunches, but Gemma. Messy, imperfect, learning as she goes. Always learning. Always chasing joy. They’ll know I was trying to be better, not tomorrow, but today. That I loved them fiercely and was endlessly proud of them, even on the days the house was a tip, I lost my rag, the laundry pile towered, and dinner was air fryer chips for the third night running.
The biggest lesson from my thirties? It’s not selfish to make time for yourself. It’s not frivolous to spend money on things that spark joy. (And no, not the “keeping up with the Joneses” kind - the genuine joy kind.) Beige, boring, “grown-up” aren’t badges of honour. They’re suffocation of the spirit. Joy isn’t childish. Joy is the bravest thing we can do.
Being my first letter, I have a lot of ground to cover, but even just looking back over the last ten years, oh my, what a rollercoaster. How could I ever forget Covid? When the world stopped, but for me, so much opened up. No Joneses. No rushing. Just me, the children, our bubble. Long walks, picnics, and rediscovering each other as therapy. It reminded me what actually matters: love, connection, the sky above us, and the smallest moments. That time, combined with a decade of losing loved ones, carved the truth into me: we are not guaranteed another year, another birthday, another chance to say I love you, or to say yes to sunsets, musicals, or more blue-and-white plates.
Speaking of plates: please, don’t listen to anyone who says a wall of blue-and-white crockery is “granny-ish.” Those plates bring you joy. We don’t know why, and we don’t need to. Don’t question it. Don’t stop. Just put up more shelves.
And oh, those ducklings. Ten years ago I was a mum of three, stepmum to two, with no plan to expand the chaos. And yet here we are. Four children, endlessly grateful, more than occasionally, overwhelmed.
Mollie, 17 — learning to drive, making me want to bundle her back into Peppa Pig marathons and wellies. She’s funny, fierce, quick-witted, straight-talking. After everything she’s been through, I couldn’t be prouder. We walked the home education journey, she smashed her GCSE results, and I wish I could go back and show her 12-year-old self all that she would achieve and that everything would be okay. I always thought being a girl mum would be coffee dates and princess dresses. Turns out it’s so much more — lessons, growth, and becoming a better person together. It’s true what they say: you grow up with your eldest child. And Mollie has held my hand and made me own myself.
Billy 15 — my quiet, graceful, maybe slightly too polite son. He loves fiercely, thinks deeply, and has a calm strength I wish I’d had at his age. He’s also currently the best labourer his dad ever had, and has inherited his dad’s love of cars and his mum’s love of shopping. I may collect picnic baskets and blue-and-white plates, but Billy has a hoodie and trainer collection to rival any of mine. He has this air of knowing what he wants in life and as much as I wish I could keep him little forever, I’m more than a little excited to watch his story unfold.
Harry, 12 — cheeky, fun-loving, my old soul in a young body. Straight-talking, no prisoners, forever my baby after nearly a decade as my youngest. He’s who I wish I was more like — wild swimming, weekly adventures, standing his ground, knowing his worth, and holding people to their word. As a toddler, he told us of his many “adventures in previous lives,” and maybe that’s where all his wisdom and endless knowledge comes from.
And Theo 3 — my wild card, my final piece, my bundle of love we didn’t know we needed. Fate had you written long before I was ready to admit it. I was told I would have another child and swore they were wrong. And yet, here you are. You saved me, reminded me what’s important, and bound us all closer together. You are so loving, so trusting, and so utterly ours.
And I must mention the two children who first made me a mum. My step-children, my first glimpse into motherhood, who taught me how to love unconditionally. They gave me grandchildren (hello, Nanny Duck!), and although I wish I could do more in my nanny life, I promise to always try harder.
And then there’s marriage. Forty also means sixteen years married, and twenty-three years with Mr Duck. Almost a lifetime, and what an adventure it’s been. He’s my grumpy old soul, my steady heartbeat, and my mission now is to help him rediscover joy too. He’s allowed me to be the mum so many dream of being. I’ve done every drop-off, every pick-up, every school event, all because he worked alongside me to build this family and this home. We share the same dreams, values, and desires. My hope now is that as we edge out of the trenches, we can pour more energy into those dreams, giving him the freedom to find himself too. Marriage isn’t always easy, but the joy of doing it with someone who has your back is a privilege I’ll never stop being grateful for. And as for the next twenty-three years? Let’s hope they involve a beach, a beating sun, and a bloody good view.
So here’s my promise to you, Future Gemma: have more picnics - the proper kind, with baskets, prosecco, and blankets. Watch more musicals - because Elle Woods, Elphaba, and Anne Boleyn are medicine, not guilty pleasures. Chase more sunsets — you’re not a morning person, so don’t pretend. Spend more time with the kids - no phones, just the beautiful chaos of now. And stop lingering in beige. If it doesn’t spark joy, move on. Buy the dress. Eat the cake. Add the colour.
And this journey you’re on — discovering joy, learning everything you can, sharing it with others — don’t stop. Don’t get distracted by the next shiny thing. This is your calling. If you’re reading this years from now and you’ve drifted, let this be your reminder to come back. To rediscover that bubbly, rose-tinted, always-smiling self who sees the best in people. The you who finds joy in the mundane, and then shares it with the world.
Also, stop worrying about what’s not your thing. You’ll never be the legendary cook with the weekly lasagna or roast that keeps the kids coming back while they make their own journey through life. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll keep coming back anyway — to tell you about their week, to sit in the kitchen, to feel the love and safety you’ve always given them.
This letter is my way of savouring. Of bottling up gratitude and dreams before they slip away into the blur of days. Maybe someone else will read this and think: I should write one too. Not for Instagram. Not for the highlight reel. For themselves. For their future self, who will one day be glad they captured the now.
So here’s to forty. And here’s to the next twenty letters, twenty years, and all the picnics, musicals, sunsets, crockery walls, and scandalous amounts of cake still to come.
With love,
Gem xx