Turning 50 as a Christian woman: Trusting God with the Age I Never Saw Coming
I am in the last year of my 40s.
I’ll pause so you can absorb that with me.
The big 5-0 is sitting at the end of this year like a toll booth I cannot avoid, and I am standing here patting my pockets going, how did I get here so fast and do I have exact change for this?
Listen, turning 30 and 40 had their moments, sure. I remember bracing for each one like you brace for a cold shower; a little dramatic, slightly unnecessary, over pretty quickly. But 50 feels different. 50 feels LOUD. Because 50 was the age I associated with other people. Specifically: grandparents. Older parents. My mom.
I am turning my mom’s age.
(Let that sink in. I’ll wait.)
It’s not that I think 50 is ancient or that the women around me who are 50 and beyond are somehow “less than”… absolutely not. It’s more that somewhere in my brain, 50 always meant grown up. Like, fully, undeniably, no-takebacks grown up. And I still feel like I’m waiting to feel that way. I still sometimes get to a situation and think, shouldn’t there be an actual adult here to handle this? And then I remember, oh. That’s me. I am the adult.
What I Expected Versus What Actually Happened
My senior year of high school, I had one of those little journal books. You know the kind—full of prompts like Where do you see yourself in 10, 15, 20 years? I filled that thing out with such confidence. Such vision. Such delightful naivety.
Here is a brief summary of how that went: almost none of it happened.
I did go to college. I was a teacher. So, partial credit, I suppose.
But the marriage I expected? Didn’t happen. The kids I longed for, genuinely longed for, not just as a checkbox but as something I truly wanted? Also didn’t happen. And I want to be honest here without throwing a pity party (nobody RSVPs to those anyway): if I let myself sit in what didn’t happen, I could spiral fast. The gap between what I wrote in that little journal and where I actually am is wide enough to drive a truck through.
There are days when the enemy of my soul would love nothing more than for me to set up permanent residency in that gap. To stare at the unmet expectations, marinate in the longing, and spend my remaining years grieving a life I didn’t get to live.
But here is what I keep coming back to:
God is sovereign over all of it.
Not just the good parts. All of it.
What God Did Instead (Spoiler: It’s Better)
In my early 20s, I called myself a Christian. I thought I was going to heaven. I had the vocabulary, the vague church attendance, the cultural Christianity that felt like enough.
Looking back, I was on a fast track to somewhere that was decidedly not heaven.
I did not know God. Not really. I knew about Him the way I know about quantum physics—I’ve heard of it, I couldn’t explain it, and I’m not living my life by it.
But the Lord, in His mercy and patience and relentless grace, did not leave me there. Over the years, and especially in the last six years, He has done something in my life that I never could have engineered on my own: actual, deep, sometimes uncomfortable sanctification. Real knowledge of His Word. A genuine fear of the Lord that has replaced the casual, culturally convenient faith I used to carry around in my back pocket.
And I’ll tell you—that changes everything about turning 50.
Not everything. My knees still sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies. That part hasn’t been sanctified away.
But when I think about all the years I have lived, and I hold them up to what God has done in and through them, even the hard years, even the years of unanswered prayers and unmet expectations—His goodness is not hard to find. It is everywhere. I just have to be willing to look.
My Body, My Betrayer
Can we talk about the physical stuff for a second? Because I feel like we have to.
I just got back from a camping trip. A genuinely wonderful, fun, memory-making camping trip. I drove home, unloaded the car, sat down, and was done. D-O-N-E. Finished. Depleted in a way that required horizontal recovery and probably an embarrassing amount of time staring at the ceiling.
Ten years ago, I would have bounced back the same day. Possibly gone out that night. Now? I need 48 hours and a very specific ratio of sleep to quiet.
This is the body at 49, ladies. It keeps the receipts and it is not shy about presenting them.
And I know it only continues from here. More aches. Slower recovery. The reading glasses that show up on every surface of your home because you’ve panic-bought twelve pairs. The moment you stand up from the couch and make a noise that you genuinely did not authorize. The way a full week of activity now requires a full weekend of doing approximately nothing.
It is humbling. I won’t pretend otherwise.
But here is what I keep reminding myself: my body was always going to do this. It was designed with an expiration date. Not because God made something faulty, but because this world is not our home. These bodies are temporary. They are, as James puts it, a vapor. Here for a moment, then gone.
“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.” James 4:14 (LSB)
That’s not a morbid thought. It is an anchoring one. Because it means I’m not supposed to be holding onto this body, this life, this decade, this age with white knuckles. I am supposed to be holding onto the One who is eternal.
A Word to My Fellow Women (And It Is Not “Just You Wait”)
I want to say something directly, with love, to the women who are a few years ahead of me on this road:
Please, I am begging you, stop saying “Oh, just you wait.”
I know you mean well. I know it comes from a place of solidarity and hard-won experience. But when a woman is already white-knuckling her way toward a milestone birthday, “just you wait” is not the encouragement she needs. It is, in fact, the exact opposite of encouragement. It is a preview of coming horrors delivered with a knowing smile, and we have to stop doing it to each other.
What we can do instead is this: we can tell each other the truth about the hard parts and point each other to the God who is faithful in all of them.
We can say, “Yes, it’s hard sometimes. And God has been so good.”
We can reflect on His mercy. We can talk about what we’ve learned. We can share how our faith has deepened rather than how our joints have worsened… or at least, we can share both, in that order, with the right emphasis.
We are not here to scare the women behind us. We are here to encourage them. To walk alongside them. To say, “I’ve been on this road. It has hard stretches. But the One leading you is trustworthy.”
What I’m Learning to Do With 50
I am learning—slowly, imperfectly, sometimes mid-anxiety-spiral—to trust God with this.
To trust Him with the things that didn’t happen the way I planned. To trust Him with the years ahead that I cannot see. To trust Him with this body that is aging on its own schedule regardless of my feelings about it. To trust Him with the number on my birthday cake.
When Job had nothing left but questions and anguish, God didn’t give him a tidy explanation. He gave Job Himself. He showed Job who He was: the Creator of the cosmos, the One who laid the foundations of the earth, the One who commands the morning and sets the boundaries of the seas (Job 38-39). And Job’s response was not “ah, that clears everything up.” It was awe. Repentance. Worship.
That is where I want to live. In the awe and wonder of who He is—not in the grief of what I don’t have or the fear of what’s coming.
My last breath on this earth has already been appointed. I don’t know when it is. God does. And between now and then, I want to be faithful. Obedient. Grateful. Present.
Grateful for friends who make me laugh until I can’t breathe. For family. For a church that teaches me God’s Word. For a job that lets me serve people well. For a home, food, enough. For air in my lungs, however many years those lungs have left in them.
And someday—someday—this aging, aching, vapor of a body gets exchanged for something eternal. And I will worship the Lord forever, without the knee sounds and the recovery days and the reading glasses.
Oh, what a day that will be.
Until then? I’ll take the senior discount. I have earned it.
