The years tick by, each faster than the one before. I’d been warned about this phenomenon by my parents and other "old folks" when I was in high school, and college. But somehow I thought this problem -- along with others such as male pattern baldness, arthritis, and dry eyes -- would never happen to me. I was permanently ensconced in my own personal San Diego, a youthful place where the weather was always fine and the problems of middle age would not apply.

Then my 40th birthday arrived with the force of a slap on the face (see Moonstruck) or a dip into an ice-cold mountain stream. Suddenly, I could no longer think of myself as young (though "40" seems downright childlike today, as I look back from the vantage point of my mid-50s). Since my actual birthday fell on a weekday, I’d planned a party with my two housemates for the following weekend. The day before the big event, I was holed up in my bedroom, literally sobbing as I examined my life as it looked to me then. I struggled with depression, low self-esteem, and a hunger (which felt like a toothache or a low-grade infection) for companionship, while I felt unworthy of it. In other words I was lonely, lacked confidence, and didn’t see a way out of the black tunnel of my depression.

Given the fact that 20 people were coming to celebrate my entry into middle age, I pulled myself out of bed and began getting ready. The morning of the party, I made an emergency visit to my acupuncturist, a wise sage of a woman named Deborah, who was about ten years older than me, but who often acted much younger. "There’s just something about birthdays that bring up these feelings, it’s archetypal," she said. Though I didn’t know exactly what "archetypal" meant, I felt a bit less crazy as I left her office, knowing that I had company in my fear of getting older.

That night, our Somerville apartment filled up with people smiling, chatting, and munching on the homemade pizza my roommates had cooked up for my gathering. For a few hours, I felt less alone. To my surprise, I enjoyed the party and let go of my worries for a while. Soon after, calling myself a "forty-something" man didn’t feel too bad. 

Fast-forward ten years, which felt more like five, and I found myself planning a 50th birthday celebration. Over the intervening decade, my life had changed for the better, and the depression that plagued me until my early 40s had finally dissipated like the morning fog on Cape Cod. But my body, which had generally been healthy, started changing. Shortly after I turned 49, I suddenly lost most of the hearing in my left ear. I struggled with insomnia, was diagnosed with skin cancer and had minor surgery to excise the melanoma on my chest, and discovered I had a large tumor near my left kidney, which turned out to be benign. (I also had a kidney stone that year, just to provide a bit more excitement.)

So when I finally made it to my milestone birthday, I had a hearing aid, a new scar down the center of my chest, and a new lease on life. Even though "50" seemed decidedly middle-aged, I was convinced that, as my younger brother reminded me, "It beat the alternative." The party itself took place about two weeks after my actual birthday, after I had gotten the good news about my tumor, and knew that my medical drama was over, at least for the time being.

Though one of my friends helpfully reminded me that I was now older than "most trees, houses, and some towns," I was able to connect with a sense of gratitude that I was still among the living, and most importantly, that I had a sense of a life being lived, a sense I did not have at 40. Over the past five years -- I will be "55" in two months -- my life has continued to evolve, and to get better, even while I struggle with the aging process and the bodily changes that go along with it. 

Looking back at my own life, I wouldn’t want to be 25, 35, or even 45 again, if it meant losing the hard-earned wisdom, the life experience I’ve accrued over time. (Though I wouldn’t mind borrowing the 35-year-old’s body for a while.) As I enter another year, I am willing to accept the trade off life has offered me. 

Besides, I have no real choice.

Judah Leblang is a writer and teacher in Boston, and the author of Finding My Place: One Man’s Journey from Cleveland to Boston and Beyond.