I’m about to turn 55 — and I’m going to miss the actual day completely as I’ll be turning 55 in the air.

On March 10 I’ll leave, and by the time I land back in Sydney on March 12, March 11 — my birthday — will have quietly passed somewhere over an ocean. No midnight moment. No cake. No candle at the exact time I was born. Just clouds outside the window and the steady hum of engines carrying me across time zones while the calendar turns without me.

There’s something strangely fitting about that.

As I approach 55, I’ve been thinking less about the number and more about the journey. About how many versions of myself I’ve already been. The younger woman who played small. The one who hesitated. The one who carried fear quietly. And now the woman booking safaris in South Africa, travelling the world for work, raising an extraordinary son and daughter, building dreams and still choosing growth.

Turning 55 in Australia doesn’t unlock some dramatic milestone. There’s no parade, no sudden badge of honour. But it does feel like a threshold — not of slowing down, but of stepping more fully into myself.

I won’t celebrate my birthday in the traditional way this year because I won’t physically be present for it. The date will come and go while I’m suspended between places. And maybe that’s the lesson in it. Maybe 55 isn’t about marking a single day. Maybe it’s about momentum.

About refusing to shrink.
About ageing boldly.
About saying yes to what stretches you.

So before I board that flight, before March 11 slips by somewhere above the earth, I just want to say this: I’m grateful. For the years. For the resilience. For the wisdom earned the hard way. For the becoming.

55 is almost here.

And I’m not afraid of missing the day.

I’m exactly where I’m meant to be — in motion. ✈️✨