I have just turned forty; I don’t have all the answers. If anything, I have more questions than I did at twenty or thirty. I still wonder how different life might have been. I still have chapters that feel unfinished. I still catch myself wishing certain things had never happened.

Even this past week, our birthday travel plans fell away so we could stay home and prioritize our dog at the end of her life. But in true fashion, my family stepped in, organizing things on the fly so I could spend quality time with my friends and family—ensuring we still celebrated, surrounded by love, despite the shift.

Over the years I’ve learned that a life doesn’t have to go to plan to be a good one. The days before my fortieth birthday taught me something simple: I’d choose people over achievement, happiness over endless hardship, and truth over comfortable uncertainty. Most of all, I’d choose this life—different though it is.

Years ago, sitting in hospital, I didn’t know what the future held or even if I’d make it to 40. If I could speak to that version of myself now, I’d tell him only this: Life’s going to be different, but not bad .

Forty feels like a good age to finally believe it.