Twenty One Pilots’s song, “Stressed Out,” laments the insecurities of adulthood, noting that fear is still present, and we still care what people think. I turned 40 this month, and yes, I’m still insecure. It’s different than high school. And the same. I want you to like me. I want to be well-dressed and well-spoken, and most importantly, perceived well.

I’m a grown-up—have been for quite some time—and I can tell you what maturity doesn’t mean. Being grown up doesn’t involve control and confidence; it doesn’t mean growing out of awkward traits and social habits; it doesn’t include a clean house and well-kept yard, or a passel of perfect grown-up girlfriends.

I’m less sure what being a grownup does mean. But I’ve noticed I’m softer than I used to be—more flexible, a teensy bit less judgmental, and I know more about cooking and cleaning than I did 20 years ago.

I know less about God, love, and relationships. It’s been said that the more you know, the more you know you don’t know anything. I can confirm this.

There’s a real sense of loss, not landing in adulthood firmly in control and certainty, an expert in the kitchen, the workplace, the bedroom. I get tired of being wrong, confused, ineffective. If knowledge comes from experience, I am an expert in exhaustion, stress, and leaving my cell phone in obscure places.

I know I’m sounding a tad morose. But there is a happy ending. There’s something left after losing control, and the appearance of control, and pretending to have control. What’s left is eyes to see a different life entirely—a life of watching the cat lick his fur, thinking of my three favorite moments from the day just before I fall asleep, fighting less with my kids and husband, knowing there will not be a seismic event when my to-do list is left undone.

And I know myself better. I know I love writing and small groups. I know I like a clean house, but not enough to put in the work. I know I’m scared of the interminable wants and needs of my children. Being quiet and alone—especially in nature—returns me to myself. Banana splits and blended mochas almost always sound good. I try the hardest to be self-sufficient when I’m at my weakest. Animals make me happy. Getting called “a writer” makes me stand a little taller. Synchronicity feels like opening a birthday present.

My birthday, which this year fell on the first Sunday in May, played out like a dream Mother’s Day. My husband cleaned the kitchen, top to bottom. He and the kids cooked breakfast and dinner, and took me out for lunch. I sorted through a large tote, five bags, and an unconstrained pile of children’s clothing I hauled up from the basement, and found most of it could be passed on. I went to the park and watched goslings and ducklings, heard the smack-smack of their webbed feet in shallow water, and marveled at their fluffy bodies. I took a nap. With my parents and sister, I ate fresh-made blackberry pie with “40” cut into the top crust. Michael gave me a gift certificate to have the house professionally cleaned (when the dust settles from our six-month construction project). Like I said, a dream day.

It’s worth noting I couldn’t have planned such a day. All was gift—the generosity of my husband, my children, my sister. Many times I have planned a birthday party for myself, with friends and presents and homemade cake. But for forty, this un-forced birthday felt fitting. The people who love me gave what they wanted to give. And I received. I basked. I rested. And yes, I sorted children’s clothing—one of those things I never can find time to do.

Maybe I’m ready to accept this life I have. Whether I die tomorrow or in another 40 years, I will die complicated—a mix of peace and insecurity, frustration and gratitude, mundane and miraculous. And not at all grown up.