Tomorrow I turn 48 years old, and for the first time, my brain actually stopped and said, wait—what?

My body figured this shit out years ago. That happened around 40. That was the warning shot. The aches, the fatigue, the reminders that gravity is undefeated. My body knows exactly how old I am and has no problem telling me about it.

My brain, on the other hand, is still stuck somewhere around 15. Maybe 17 on a good day. Curious. Restless. Still convinced there’s plenty of time left to figure things out.

Forty-eight years? What the actual fuck have I been doing?

The Inventory Nobody Warns You About

Here’s the part nobody really talks about: somewhere between 48 and 50, almost everyone does a quiet, internal inventory of their life. Not the highlight reel. Not the Instagram version. The real one.

You sit back and ask questions you didn’t have the bandwidth for before.

What did I build?

What did I waste time on?

What did I do because I wanted to—and what did I do because I thought I was supposed to?

And yeah, you can point to the cool shit. I can. A long-running radio show. Interesting people. Creative projects. Stories worth telling. That all counts. It matters.

But that’s not what your brain zooms in on at 2 a.m.

It zooms in on the gaps. The missed turns. The places where you know—now—that you could’ve handled things better if you’d trusted yourself sooner.

Your Brain Doesn’t Age at the Same Speed

That’s the cruel joke of getting older. Your body ages on a schedule. Your brain does not.

Inside your head, you still feel like the same person. Same instincts. Same internal voice. Same sense of humor. The only difference is now you have decades of context behind every decision.

That disconnect is jarring. You look in the mirror and think, Who the hell is that? Meanwhile, your mind is still arguing about music, ideas, and plans like it’s got all the time in the world.

That’s when the number hits. Forty-eight. Damn near fifty. And suddenly the math feels aggressive.

The Question Everyone Asks and Nobody Says Out Loud

At some point around this age, everyone asks the same question—even if they never admit it.

Is this what I was supposed to do with my time?

Not in a dramatic, movie-monologue way. In a quiet, unsettling way. You realize you’ve been alive long enough that “potential” isn’t theoretical anymore. You can see what you followed through on—and what you didn’t.

That realization isn’t about regret. It’s about clarity. About understanding that time doesn’t feel slow anymore. It moves whether you’re paying attention or not.

Still Here. Still Aware. Still Not Done.

Here’s the part that matters: this isn’t a surrender post.

It’s an awareness post.

Forty-eight doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re awake enough to ask better questions. It means you’ve lived long enough to stop lying to yourself about what matters and what doesn’t.

Yeah, my body feels old. My brain still feels young. That tension is uncomfortable—but it’s also honest. And honesty is a hell of a lot better than denial.

I don’t feel like I’m out of time. But I do feel like time is no longer subtle. It’s louder now. Less patient. Less forgiving of bullshit.

And maybe that’s the point.

If this is what standing at the edge of fifty feels like—then fine. I’ll take the clarity. I’ll take the discomfort. I’ll take the questions.

Because I’m still here. Still thinking. Still creating. Still asking what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of it.

And that has to count for something.

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