Rediscovering Myself at 41

Turning 41 has made me realise something unexpected: for a long time, life felt like one big blur. Somewhere between building films, working multiple jobs, moving countries, chasing opportunities, and simply trying to survive as an independent creative, I stopped noticing the passing of time. I was always looking towards the next project, the next goal, the next challenge. Before I knew it, nearly two decades had passed.

Recently, I rediscovered my old online blog. Reading through posts I'd written in my early twenties felt like opening a time capsule. There were photographs I had completely forgotten, stories from productions that had faded from memory, and thoughts from a younger version of myself who was simply trying to make sense of the world. It was both nostalgic and strangely emotional because I realised how much of my own life I had forgotten. If I hadn't kept those records, many of those moments would have been lost forever.

What fascinated me most wasn't the stories themselves, but the way I wrote. My thoughts jumped from one idea to another with little warning. I'd begin talking about one topic before suddenly pivoting to something completely different. There was excitement, curiosity, randomness and an endless stream of ideas flowing faster than I could organise them. Reading it now, I couldn't help but smile.

Earlier this year, I was diagnosed with ADHD. Looking back at those blog entries through that lens, I don't see someone who was disorganised or unfocused. Instead, I see a brain working exactly the way it always had. The diagnosis didn't rewrite my past, but it certainly helped me understand it. The scattered thoughts, the endless list of creative projects, the tendency to become completely immersed in one idea before racing towards another—it was all there, documented years before I ever knew why my mind worked the way it did.

In many ways, those early blog posts are probably some of the most authentic writing I've ever done. They weren't polished or carefully structured. They were honest snapshots of what it felt like to be inside my head at that particular moment in time. There's something beautifully human about that, and I don't think I'd want to edit that younger version of myself, even if I could.

One thing that also caught me by surprise was seeing old photos of myself. I came across one taken in 2009 when I was 24 years old (below with a sword), and apart from a few laugh lines and a little more life experience, I honestly don't feel like I've changed all that much. People often ask what my secret is, and while I know genetics undoubtedly play a role, I also think the way I've chosen to live has contributed. Over the years I've been vegan, then vegetarian, and now pescatarian. I can't say with certainty that it's the reason I still look youthful, but I do know those choices have encouraged me to eat more intentionally, take better care of myself, and prioritise my long-term health over quick fixes.

More importantly, though, turning 40 has changed how I think about time. In my twenties and thirties, I was focused on proving myself. Every opportunity felt urgent. Every project felt like it had to happen immediately. Looking back, I spent so much energy chasing what was next that I rarely stopped to appreciate where I already was.

Now I find myself wanting something different. I want to be more intentional. I want to create meaningful work, but I also want to remember the journey of creating it. I want to document the conversations, the lessons, the failures, the friendships and the small moments that never make it into a film credit or social media highlight reel. Those are often the moments that shape us the most.

Rediscovering my old blog reminded me that our memories are far more fragile than we realise. We assume we'll remember the important moments, but life has a way of compressing years into a handful of highlights. Writing has become more than simply recording events for me now. It's become a way of preserving perspective. A way of leaving breadcrumbs for my future self.

Perhaps that's what this next chapter of my life is about. Not slowing down creatively, but slowing down enough to notice. To reflect. To be present. To document the journey while I'm still living it.

Maybe one day, twenty years from now, I'll rediscover this very post. I hope that future version of me smiles, remembers a few forgotten adventures, and is grateful that I decided to start writing again.