“What do you want to do for your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should do something. It’s your fiftieth.”
My heart seized up and I snapped, “Can we talk about it later? I’m busy.”
As my husband walked away, shoulders stiff and a grim look on his face, I took a deep breath and pushed the idea of my birthday into the background of my mind. Grumpy? Yes, I was grumpy . . . decidedly so.
It was the seventh of August and my birthday, my fiftieth birthday, was exactly five weeks away. My husband couldn’t understand why I wasn’t making decisions about a party. We always celebrate decade birthdays. It’s a tradition.
I stayed busy. I was working long hours, it was true. My psychology private practice had taken off and I was still working half-time at The Prince Charles Hospital on Brisbane’s northside. I swear by the time I got through outstanding reports and letters to doctors, I only had a half day off each week.
At the hospital the following day, Mia, a good friend as well as a colleague, asked me about my birthday plans.
“Hey Hon, I’m trying to get my schedule together for September and I can’t remember what date you decided for your birthday party.”
“Oh, I haven’t thought about it yet.”
“But this is a big one, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“Have I got it right? It’s your fiftieth?”
“Yes, it’s my fiftieth.”
She looked surprised at the shortness in my voice but persevered in any case.
“So, you’ve got to have a party.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, let me know. Weekends are booking up fast.”
“Sure.”
As I walked away, my heart felt as though it had sunk down into my shoes. I felt decidedly grumpy again, and it wasn’t Mia’s fault. I should be celebrating my birthday. Fifty is a milestone that deserves marking.
Back at my desk, I opened up my calendar. My birthday fell on the Tuesday. I could organize my party for either the Saturday before or after – the eighth or the fifteenth of September. The eighth was closer to the actual date.
Picking up my phone, I called Mia. “Are you free on Saturday the eighth?”
“Give me a moment . . . . yep, that works.”
“Say . . . three o’clock?”
“Done deal, Hon. Party time!”
As I hung up, I smiled at her enthusiasm, and then sighed. I wished I felt the same way.
Over the next couple of weeks, the party came together but I was still struggling to find enthusiasm for the event. I felt as though I was doing this for everyone else, rather than for myself. Why was it so?
As any good psychologist knows, the art of self-analysis is fraught. Still, I felt it was important that I get to the bottom of my disinterest . . . actually, no, disinterest is the wrong word . . . the word is avoidance. Why was I so avoidant at the thought of turning fifty? I didn’t have any problems with thirty or forty. So, what was it about turning fifty that was so distressing?
I worried away at the problem but was no closer to an answer. Then one day at the hospital, I was about to join Mia and Helen, one of the podiatrists, for lunch. They were chatting as I walked over. As I started to sit, Helen blurted out, “I can’t believe you’ll be fifty in two weeks”.
I froze halfway to my seat and glared at Mia.
Helen continued, “When Mia told me you had a big birthday coming up, I assumed it was your fortieth.”
As I slumped into my seat, I had an epiphany. I was scared that if people knew how old I was they wouldn’t like me as much. Well, how about that?
I had good genes on my mother’s side of the family. We age well. My mother looks at least 15 years younger than she is. I don’t look my age. Previously, I’ve been rather pleased by that.
At what point, did it start to be an issue?
At the hospital I was mixing with a lot of people in their mid-thirties. I guess some weird, irrational part of my brain decided that they would assume that I fit into their demographic, that I was around the same age. The assumption was that if they knew how old I really was they wouldn’t like me as much, that they would treat me differently. They might not feel as comfortable with me. Bizarre. I was having what amounted to an existential crisis. Me! An existential crisis.
So, what to do about it? Now that I’d identified the problem, my rational brain insisted on finding a solution. A plan formulated itself.
“Yes,” I told Helen, “I turn fifty on the eleventh of September, half a century.”
And she didn’t treat me any differently. Huh? Well, what do you know?
For next two weeks leading to my big day, I made a point of telling every single person I ran into at the hospital about my impending birthday and how old I was going to be. My irrational self had got it wrong. No-one thought any the less of me for being older than they’d assumed. Most people were surprised and complimentary about the fact that I didn’t look my age.
In fact, I was the only person whose opinion about me altered. By confronting my fear of not fitting in, I actually started a dialogue with myself about myself. The outcome of the dialogue was very positive. For the first time in my life, I appreciated myself for who I was.
I remembered way back in high school coining a phrase to describe myself. I said I had a superiority inferiority complex reflecting both my high level of intelligence and the fact that I just didn’t feel ‘good enough’. I had internalized core beliefs that I wasn’t good enough and that I didn’t belong.
Those internalized beliefs had stayed with me all my life. They made it difficult because I they encouraged me to sabotage myself. It was hard to step out of my comfort zone and reach for the stars because frankly I didn’t believe I deserved the stars.
That had now changed. For the first time in my life, I realized that I was worthy. I was proud of myself, of what I had achieved in spite of my self-sabotage. For the first time in my life, I could honestly say I liked the person I was.
In September 2022, I turned sixty. I still want to do a happy dance when I think of being sixty. It was my favorite of all my birthdays. It somehow felt liberating. When I turned sixty, I decided it was time to retire and spend my time doing what I love.
In the ten years since my fiftieth I have blossomed. I feel that I have achieved so much.
My clinical skills improved out of sight once I stopped believing I was a fraud and not good enough. I wrote and published a book of which I’m incredibly proud. I write articles from a psychological perspective to help people help themselves. I write fiction and mentor others in the art. Just after turning fifty, I took up community theatre and have had fabulous roles on stage and film. I have taken up new hobbies and interests.
With my newfound belief in myself, I also found a new zest for life. I love my life. I love myself. I have realized that one of my core values is helping other people grow and blossom, so I invest time and energy in supporting others to walk the path it took me so long to find.
Looking back, I wonder where I would be now if my friend, Mia, hadn’t pushed me into having a party for my fiftieth and then blabbed about my age to our friend, Helen, at that fateful lunch. Would I have recognized and confronted my belief that I wasn’t good enough? I don’t know for sure. I suspect that I would have continued to struggle with the concepts of self-love and self-respect. I believe those moments, in combination, provided the catalyst to change the course I was sailing.
Who would have thought that my discomfort at turning fifty would lead me to absolutely thrive at sixty. As I always say, it’s never too late to change. When I wrote my book, my mother commented that it was a shame I hadn’t written it twenty years earlier. My response was simply that I couldn’t have written it twenty years earlier. I didn’t know then what I know now. I wrote my book when the time was right.
I have been a catalyst of change for many people in the past ten years, and no matter how old or young they were, their time of change came when they were ready to change. The misfortune comes when people choose not to change because it’s ‘too late’. Well, I’m standing up and telling you that it’s never too late to choose you! It's never too late to change!
About the Creator
Tracey Zielinski
I read fiction. I breathe fiction - all kinds of fiction.
I love reading work which stimulates my imagination and takes me to new places.
My goal is to be a writer who brings your imagination to life.
Keep reading
More stories from Tracey Zielinski and writers in Motivation and other communities.
“The Day I Thought I Couldn’t Go On — But Tomorrow Changed Everything”
I never imagined that a single day could feel like the heaviest weight in the world. It wasn’t the kind of day that sneaks up on you; it’s the kind that hits you like a storm you weren’t prepared for. From the moment I opened my eyes, something inside me knew that this day would be different. I didn’t know yet how different, or how much it would change me forever. The morning began quietly, deceptively calm. I went through the motions—brushing my teeth, making a cup of tea, scrolling through my phone—but my heart felt heavier than usual. Small failures from the past week clung to me like shadows. A failed exam, an argument with a friend, a project that didn’t turn out the way I hoped—it all piled on top of me, brick by brick. By the time I left the house, the weight of disappointment already made my chest ache. Then the real storm hit. I tried to hold it together, tried to keep walking forward, but everything seemed to fall apart at once. A message from someone I trusted made me feel betrayed. A mistake I thought I had fixed resurfaced, and I realized the consequences were bigger than I could handle. Even the sky seemed to mock me, dark clouds rolling in, drizzling rain that soaked me through as if nature itself knew my sorrow. I found a quiet park bench, alone except for the occasional passerby with their umbrellas and hurried steps. I sank down, my arms wrapped around my knees, and I let myself feel the weight of the world for the first time that day. Tears blurred my vision, not because I wanted to cry, but because my heart had no other way to release the pressure building inside. I kept asking myself, Why me? Why does everything feel so impossible right now? Hours passed like this—silent, painful, endless. I tried to remind myself that bad days happen to everyone, that life is a series of ups and downs—but the words felt hollow. My mind raced with “what ifs” and “if onlys,” and every solution seemed just out of reach. I felt like a failure, like the world had moved on without me. I thought about giving up—not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet, subtle way that your heart stops trying to hope for better. And yet, in the middle of that stormy day, something shifted. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t magical. It was subtle—a thought, a memory, a small whisper in the corner of my mind that reminded me of who I was. I remembered the times I had struggled before, the nights I thought I couldn’t get through, and somehow, I had. I remembered the people who had believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. And I remembered one simple truth: pain doesn’t come to destroy you; it comes to teach you. I sat there for a long time, letting the rain soak through my coat, letting the tears fall freely, letting myself simply exist in the moment. And slowly, the anger, the fear, and the despair began to loosen their grip. I realized that this day—terrible, exhausting, heartbreaking—wasn’t the end of my story. It was a pause. A chapter that would shape me into someone stronger, wiser, more compassionate than I had been yesterday. By the time the sun began to peek through the clouds, painting the sky with soft hues of gold and pink, I felt a quiet shift in my chest. It wasn’t a dramatic change; it wasn’t like someone waved a magic wand. It was a tiny flicker of hope—a reminder that tomorrow existed, and tomorrow was a chance to start again. I walked home slowly, each step lighter than the one before. I realized that I didn’t need to have all the answers right now. I didn’t need to fix everything at once. All I needed was to keep moving forward, even if it was just one small step at a time. That night, I wrote in my journal—a habit I hadn’t kept up in months. I wrote about the pain I had felt, the mistakes I had made, the people who had disappointed me, and the fears that had kept me awake at night. But I also wrote about the small victories: the fact that I had survived this day, the fact that I had faced my pain instead of running from it, the fact that I was still here, still breathing, still willing to try again. And as I wrote, I realized something profound: every hardship, every failure, every heartache had shaped me into who I am. They had given me strength I didn’t know I had. They had taught me lessons that no easy day ever could. The next morning, I woke up before sunrise. The world was quiet, bathed in soft golden light. I stepped outside and felt the cool morning air on my face. For the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled—not because everything was perfect, but because I was alive. Because I had the chance to try again. Because I had the power to turn this day into the beginning of something new. I realized that life isn’t about avoiding bad days; it’s about learning how to survive them, how to grow through them, how to use them as stepping stones to something greater. Every setback, every heartbreak, every failure is part of the journey, not the destination. And so, I made a promise to myself: I would not let this day—or any day—define me. I would not let my mistakes or disappointments steal my hope. I would rest when I needed to, I would cry when I needed to, but I would never stop moving forward. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if the path ahead will be easy. But I do know that I am stronger than I thought, braver than I imagined, and capable of more than I can see right now. And that is enough. That day—the day I thought I couldn’t go on—didn’t destroy me. It didn’t break me. It reshaped me, reminded me of my resilience, and showed me the quiet, unshakeable power of hope. Sometimes, the darkest days teach us the most important lessons. Sometimes, the storm is exactly what we need to see the sunlight. And sometimes, tomorrow really does change everything. So if you are reading this, and today feels unbearable, remember this: your story isn’t over. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to feel pain. You are allowed to be human. But don’t forget that pain is temporary, that storms pass, and that better days are waiting. You are stronger than you know, braver than you think, and the world still has beautiful things in store for you. Let today end. Let it go. Take a deep breath. And when tomorrow comes, step forward into it with hope in your heart, even if it’s just one small step. Because that step is everything—it is proof that you can keep going, that you can keep believing, and that you can keep writing your story, one day at a time. Your story is not over yet. And sometimes, the day you think you can’t go on is the day that changes everything.
By Ihtisham Ulhaqabout 5 hours ago in Motivation
📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/08/2026
Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted most alternating Thursdays at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.
By Raise Your Voice by Vocal5 days ago in Resources
Comments (2)
Yes, it is never too late to change! In fact, I would say that change is the only constant in our life. When I turned 50, I also went through a crisis. My life now is better for the change then. Thanks Tracey.
That was very uplifting and inspiring Tracey, well done!