Romanticising my life at 44

I’ve realised that I’m quite deliberately romanticising my life.

And I actually think that’s a good thing.

Not in a “pretending everything is perfect” kind of way. It isn’t. I still worry, get anxious, spend too much time on my phone and occasionally wonder whether everyone else has somehow worked life out better than I have. But what am I comparing myself to?There seems to be this idea that there is a correct way to do life. The right house. The right car. The right career. The right clothes, holidays, kitchen, body, and if you can just collect enough of the right things, perhaps eventually you’ll feel as though you’ve arrived. Except I don’t think there is a right house. There’s the house that makes you happy. There isn’t a right career. There’s the work that makes you feel interested and useful and alive.

I spent a long time thinking about what I should be doing with my life. I’m increasingly more interested in what actually brings me joy, and, as it turns out, most of those things are quite simple.

Painting in my studio. Making our home feel cosy and charming. Music playing. Old furniture. Flowers. Books. A cup of tea. Going for a walk and noticing that the season has changed.

And wine. Most certainly, wine.

None of it is particularly groundbreaking, but maybe that’s what romanticising your life actually is.

Not making your life look like a film, but paying attention to the one you already have. And, where you can, making choices that make it feel more like you. The world is incredibly noisy. We have more access to other people’s lives than we’ve ever had before. Within ten minutes of opening your phone you can find someone with a better house, someone younger and more successful, someone on a beautiful holiday, and someone explaining why you’ve apparently been doing your entire morning routine wrong.

It’s exhausting.

So I’m asking myself something more often:

Do I actually want this?

Or have I just seen it enough times that I’ve started to think I should? At 44, I think I know myself better than I ever have. I’m a homebody. I like quiet. I like making things. I like old things with stories. I like colour and books and paintings and slightly unnecessary objects that make me happy. I like making an ordinary day feel nice. Perhaps that’s why my paintings are changing too. I’m drawn to flowers and folklore and moons and old stories. Things that feel nostalgic even when I’m not entirely sure what I’m nostalgic for. I think we sometimes confuse simplicity with a lack of ambition.

I still have lots of ambition. I want my art career to grow. I want people to see my work. I want to make better paintings, travel, experience things and keep learning, but I don’t think ambition has to mean constantly wanting a bigger life. Maybe it just means wanting a deeper one. One where you know what you like. Where your home looks like you. Where you make things because you want them to exist. Where you don’t save everything for best, where you don’t spend your whole life waiting for the next version of yourself before you’re allowed to enjoy it. That’s something I’m increasingly conscious of at 44.

This isn’t the practice run.I don’t want to keep thinking I’ll enjoy my life properly when I’ve achieved more, earned more, finished the house, or finally become whatever version of myself I think I’m supposed to be. I want to enjoy it now.

There is so much we can’t control, and sometimes the world does feel chaotic and far too loud.

But I can decide what I let into my little corner of it. I can put my phone down. Go into the garden. Paint something. Cook something nice. Put some music on. Light the lamp instead of the big light. I can pay attention to what is right in front of me. Because there are still flowers and old houses and music and books and people we love. There are still things to make, things to look forward to and things to be curious about.

And there is absolutely no rule that says your version of a wonderful life has to look anything like anybody else’s.

I think I’m finally starting to understand that.

You get to make it your own.