I guess this is a bit of a midlife crisis.
But only if I base myself on the ‘shoulds’ of what society has decided a 40-year-old’s life should look like.
Here I am, turning 40, going back to renting a small, dark apartment. This is not a living space upgrade— in fact, it’s a downgrade. My new place is ground floor, only two windows, very little natural light. It is big enough for me and my two cats, but it is not big.
Ten years ago I moved into my first real apartment— by real I mean permanent, with my own furniture, 100% selected and bought by me, with no room mates. The place was perfect— a corner apartment, 40m2, 5th floor on a square. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with an enormous balcony that stretched along the entire south and west-facing sides of the space. It was bright: I had huge sky views, above the Swiss Jura mountains, above the rooftops of Thonon.
I was at the peak of my hospitality career— no, I wasn’t even! Because after my high-paying job in an oyster bar in Geneva, I would open my own bar in Thonon and run it for just over five years. It was a blast. It was very hard work, a lot of hustle and stress, a lot of social performance and organizing— but brought a certain stability and a lot of pride and fulfillment.
Plus, I was a star in my town.
Covid hit— and I suddenly found myself awake to the toxicity of hustling, of night life, of alcohol, of ego, of capitalism and consumerism. I couldn’t live this life anymore, and thus began my slow transition towards yoga and therapy, starting with my Masters.
I sold the bar three years ago, and moved up the mountain with Ben. I wanted to try life as a couple, I wanted to live somewhere quieter and closer to nature, and I wanted to start my business as a therapist. I knew I could easily go back to working in hospitality up here in Morzine if I needed to.
I didn’t ever go back to hospitality, by the way.
The apartment we bought in St Jean is beautiful. Ground floor on the shady side of the mountain— so we get no direct sunlight. But the windows are big, and the views out the front are mountains and sky. Out the sliding glass doors on the side: forest. I love looking out my window at green nature— I love it. And it’s bright enough, though the natural light only reaches half the apartment. I’ve missed the bath that I had in Thonon— but that’s it. My cats, Eddie and Theo, live the best cat life ever— with a terrace outside that keeps them safe from cars and dogs, and woods to play in on all sides. I also play in the woods every day.
My new apartment has no bath. It doesn’t have this magical forest next door, and there’s no view of the mountain from the apartment. The door opens onto the road, so I’ll need to figure something out so that the kitties can direct themselves safely to the fields and woods that are behind the chalet that this apartment is in. It is dark. I am back to renting, and I am back to dark.
And I am back to worrying about whether I’ll have enough money.
I have been so lucky with our situation — we had a very small mortgage on our apartment thanks to Ben, which has allowed me to grow a brand new business into a healthy state. It’s only very recent that I’ve reached the point where I can realistically afford to live alone again— so the timing on this is perfect, because this year, I know I can. Next year will be even better.
But I’m 40. And the expectation at this time of life is: stability. Stable relationship, family. Stable job, worked up the ladder.
And what kills me is this: I could have had that.
If I had stayed in a relationship that wasn’t aligned, I could have the stability and the family. If I had stayed in a career that wasn’t aligned, I’d be at the height of my career right now, and still moving upward.
Instead here I am, single at 40, building a business as best I can, back in the shoes of a beginner.
And there is a grief that comes with that, even if I choose the aligned life over the stable one.
The next step is to stabilize this one, and stay.