It’s official: at 51, I’m bang in the prime of my life

It was my birthday last week and I turned 51, and because I turned 51 I am officially in the prime of my life. Picture: Supplied

I have some personal news to share that no doubt will thrill you, as it did me. Are you ready? It’s good. It was my birthday last week and I turned 51, and because I turned 51 I am officially in the prime of my life. Yep, that’s right. In my prime and feeling fine. Fifty-one and ready for fun. And, in every way imaginable (except for my physical being), I’m feeling large and in charge.

I can say all of this with such outrageous confidence not just because it’s my experience but now also because the research tells me so. According to the results of research published this week by Australian Seniors, at 51 years and one week old I am scientifically and officially bang in the prime of my life

Apart from the absolute hilarity of finding myself in an age cohort that references senior citizens, when I read the data and the results my first thought was simple: 51 is the official prime of life? Why do a survey? Just ask your Zia Gemma; I could have told you that.

Many of you last year played along with great kindness when I shared the milestone of reaching a half-century on planet Earth. For those of you who’ve made it, and those fast approaching, you’ll know what kind of a milestone I’m talking about. The weight it carries, the feeling of relief and achievement it brings. I’m 50, I’m alive and I’m kicking. For me, it was every bit as much mental as physical.

Gemma Tognini. Picture: Supplied

It’s the line you cross. It’s the place of no return. Almost from the day I turned 50, I stopped (and I mean really stopped) sweating the small stuff. Concurrently, the stuff that matters seemed to do so exponentially more. I became more aware of time being the most precious commodity of all. I marked reaching 50 with a global extravaganza of celebrations in five countries across three continents. I reached 50 in one piece, with joy, a tender heart, the love of family and friends, and deep, precious battle scars to prove it.

But as 51 approached, well, the mind is a funny thing. Wobbly moments like that one night I realised for the first time that I was closer in age to 60 than 40.

It’s better than the alternative, I keep telling myself. And I’m right.

The Gen Seen report is a fascinating read. It speaks to many things, not the least of which is a notable generational shift on ageing. My parents’ generation at 50 looked very different from my own, as did theirs before them. But to find out that 51 is the magic number didn’t really surprise me. I feel like I’m just beginning.

Perhaps it’s the positioning and language itself that I find so jarring. Putting people over the age of 50 into the category of seniors. It just doesn’t connect. Seniors, while being a technically accurate term, speaks to a winding down. A de-rigging, of sorts. Lawn bowls, card games and long afternoon naps. Look, I’ve been napping like a champion since 1973 so that’s neither here nor there, but the phrase is almost diminishing.

For starters, I am fitter, leaner stronger now than I have been at any time in my life, and that may in part be a reflection on my younger self, but I can tell you that 30-year-old Gemma didn’t drag her sweet culo into the gym four days a week at 5.30am. My older brother is, as I write, busy riding his pushy up and down the mountains of northern Italy near the Swiss border. He and his mates are ageing defiantly, joyously and disgracefully, as I sincerely hope to.

The survey results back me up here, with those of us over 50 still believing we have much to offer. Well, of course we do. For starters, who do you reckon is paying the most income tax in this fair nation of ours? We can’t slow down. Who would keep the country running? I’m kidding. Sort of.

Three in five respondents told the survey their best years came after they hit the half tonne, a sentiment that was rooted in the sense of having a greater bank of wisdom and life experience. Can I hear an Amen?

In a few weeks I’ll chalk up 21 years in corporate life. Twenty-one years at the helm of a firm I started in my spare room, with a $500 computer and dial-up internet. Fifty-one-year-old me feels she’s just getting started. The things I know now, I could never have known then. The way I lead. The way I advise. All of it. In my corporate life, I am in the sweet spot, a place you can get to only by virtue of the hard yards in preceding decades. There are no shortcuts to anywhere worth going, I promise you that.

I can tell you with absolutely certainty that the sense of inner joy I know now is, in large part, because of the sorrows I have walked through in the past two decades. And of having learned the art and practice of choosing to be grateful, to be content, in every circumstance. That’s not to diminish the parts of my life that are still unfulfilled, that are best represented by a question mark. It’s just that learning what you can and can’t control is a bloody great lesson to learn. Tip for the youngsters: master that one early if you can.

The resilience I have built was forged in fire and came at a great price. The self-awareness I walk in, the boundaries I’ve drawn, have come because I’ve known the cost of letting people walk all over my heart. What’s that they say? Sometimes you win, sometimes you learn. Man, I have done some learning.

While the research found that 90 per cent of people over 50 feel less visible and try to hide their age, I’m not one of them. I didn’t care who knew I turned 50, and look, some of it may have been part of a carefully crafted coping mechanism, but who cares?

I have never felt more seen and relevant than the past year. Perhaps it’s about the why? Yes, exercise, diet, social connectivity, these things are very important but carry nowhere near as much weight as having a purpose. I’m not talking about a hobby, though there’s nothing wrong with that either, but a deep-rooted raison d’etre. Layer that with a freedom to be OK in your own skin, to say no and gleefully flip the middle finger at people and things that, frankly, deserve it.

Headline: stop pleasing people. It’s a mug’s game. For me, none of the beauty of this season of life would have been possible but for the pilgrimage of the broken road that went before it. I’m grateful for all of it. And, you don’t have to tell me that 51 is a bloody brilliant age. I’m living it with everything I can.