Resetting After Forty
On weekdays, Alice would wake up before her alarm. Not from being well-rested, but because an invisible countdown would already be ticking inside: make sure to get up, to get in the shower, tie her hair back, wolf down a yoghurt, check her emails while the kettle boils. The flat was quietonly the fridge giving the occasional sigh and click, and sometimes the sound of a car starting up in the car park below. Alice lived with her husband David, and their teenage son, who rarely got up before he had to and always grumbled if anyone hurried him. David left for work early, and most mornings they exchanged only brief phrases rather than full conversations.
Her job title sounded impressive: Project Coordinator. In reality, it was endless spreadsheets, emails, chasing agreements, deadlines belonging to someone else, and the constant need to keep calm, be polite, and stay approachable. She was good at keeping a straight face, at easing tensions, always replying in a way that left no room for complaints. These things were valued. She was paid on time, her salary was above board, her holidays scheduled, and she had private health insurance she almost never used.
The office smelt of instant coffee and dusty paper from the printer. Alice would settle at her desk by the window, open her laptop, and watch as her day split into tasks like cards being dealt. Sometimes, shed catch herself staring at her hands on the keyboard, thinking about how many years theyd spent typing other peoples words. It was a silly thought, but it stuck. Then shed remember her school notebooks, where shed doodled faces and trees in the margins during Year 6, and a teacher had once said: Youve got an eye for things. Back then, it had sounded like a promise; later, it had fizzled out in a blur of exams, uni applications, work, and mortgages.
She still had a box of watercolours on top of the kitchen cupboard, bought a decade earlier just to try. It had sat untouched for so long it had become part of the furniture. Alice sometimes dusted around it, but never took it down.
The change didnt come with a big bang, but rather, with small thingseach, on its own, the sort you might just shrug off and move past.
First, on Monday, her managera dry man with a habit of speaking softly but with the kind of voice that made everyone hushcalled her in and said:
Alice, you didnt push the contractor enough again. Weve lost two days. Thats your responsibility.
He didnt raise his voiceif anything, it made it worse. Alice tried to explain that the contractor hadnt replied, that shed emailed and phoned, that she had a record of it. The manager nodded, as if listening, but finished with a flat, You shouldve found a solution.
After leaving his office, Alice noticed her hands trembling. She sat at her desk, staring at her screen, seeing no words at all.
Then on Wednesday, a former colleague called. Theyd started out together, and now she was letting Alice know an old acquaintance (a man just a few years older than her) had suffered a stroke.
Hes alive, apparently, but and then more details about the hospital, how quickly it all happened.
Alice listened and nodded, even though the caller couldnt see it. After hanging up, she went to the loo, shut herself in a stall, and suddenly began to sob. Not because she and the man had been especially closemore because it was dauntingly easy to imagine being in his place, how a planned-out later, someday could vanish so quickly.
On Friday evening at home, David murmured, Theres another hold-up with my bonus next week. Not critical, but lets try and be careful with spending.
He said it as if commenting on the weather. Alice nodded, feeling something tighten inside. She knew not critical meant: dont order takeaway, put off new trainers for their son, dont talk about weekends away. Most of allit meant dont imagine youre allowed to make a mistake.
Saturday found her meeting her friend Claire at a cosy café near the Tube. Claire, a school counsellor by trade, always looked as though shed learned to breathe deeply no matter what. They chatted about their sons, prices going up, how everyones back seemed to ache. At one point, Claire looked more closely at Alice and asked:
How are you, really?
Alice wanted to reply with the usual Alright, but the words wouldnt come. She realised that alright, just then, would be a lie shed told too many times.
Im tired, she said. And I feel like Im in the wrong place.
Claire didnt rush in with comfort. She simply nodded, as if shed always suspected.
You used to draw all the time, Claire said after a pause. Remember the office party? You filled half the table with doodles on napkins while we waited for our food.
Alice gave a little embarrassed laugh, as if caught sneaking sweets.
That was just messing about.
What if it wasnt? Claire leaned in. When did you last do something only because you were interested in it?
Alice opened her mouth and closed it. She tried to recall, but nothing came. Only the endless list of must dos, and the handful of evenings when shed collapsed on the sofa, scrolling the news to numb herself.
Im forty-three, she said at last. Whats this interested business?
Claire shrugged. Forty-three is just a numberdoesnt mean anything else. The only thing that matters is what you want next.
Back home, Alice couldnt sleep for ages. David was breathing evenly, their son gaming away in his room, while Alice stared at the ceiling. She thought: if nothing changes, in a year itll be identical. In two years, the same. In ten. She thought about the friend with the stroke, her boss, the missed bonus, the untouched watercolours. The question shed always kept as a vague irritation suddenly sharpened: was she even allowed to want something different?
The next day, she took down the box of watercolours. The lid popped off with a soft clickinside were neat pans, some half-dried. She grabbed some old printer paper, filled a glass with water, and tried dragging a brush across the page. The colour puddled, the water ran, the paper went wrinkly. It was dreadful. But Alice felt a strange sense of relief, as if being clumsy was finally permitted.
On Monday at work, during lunch break, she opened the local adult education centres website and found a course: Beginner Drawing and Painting for Adults. Two evenings a week, three months, affordable if she skipped a couple of non-essentials. Alice stared at the Book Now button as if it might bite. Her hands were clammy when she finally signed up, paid, and got a confirmation email.
Telling David was harder than pressing a button.
Ive signed up for a course, she announced at dinner. Their son was fiddling with his phone, David eating in silence.
What course? David glanced over.
Drawing and painting. For adults.
He froze with his fork.
Why?
Alice had her explanation ready: for myself, to relax, Ive always wanted to. But something in his why made her feel like a schoolgirl asking permission.
Because I want to, she said, surprising even herself with her honesty.
David put his fork down.
You realise nows not the time forhobbies, dont you? Weve a mortgage, our sons heading for uni soon. And youve got a good job. Why rock the boat?
Their son looked up. Mum, are you going to be an artist now?
No mockery in his tone, just curiosity. Alice felt warmth flutter in her chest, then a quick chill.
I dont know, she said, truthfully. I just want to try.
David sighed. Alright. But not if it gets in the way.
His wordsnot if it gets in the wayhung between them like a contract clause.
The first lessons felt like being back at school, without the marks. The classroom smelt of poster paint and damp paper. Around the long tables sat all sorts: a young woman in a bright jumper, a bearded man of about fifty, a woman with a cropped haircut who looked like she worked in healthcare. The tutor, lively and attentive, showed them how to hold a pencil, how to see shapes, how not to be afraid of the empty page.
Alice was scared. She gripped her pencil painfully tight, her palm ached. Everyone else seemed better. When the tutor came round, Alice straightened automatically, the way she would during an inspection. But lesson by lesson, she noticed her fear subsided as she focused on line, shade, the way an apple cast a soft shadow in their still-life.
At home, she began reserving time for herself. Not muchhalf an hour after supper, while David watched the news and their son did homework. Shed lay out her paper and paints. Sometimes David would wander past, cast a glance, say nothing. Sometimes hed ask, Hows it going?
His Hows it going? carried both curiosity and doubt.
At work, Alice stopped eating lunch at her desk and started taking short walks outside. Shed notice peoples shoulders, the way daylight hit their faces, mentally sketching the scene. It was strange and pleasing. But alongside this came another feeling: guilt. As if she were stealing time from work or family.
A month later, her manager declared a new projectthe whole team would have to do overtime. In the meeting, while tasks were being distributed, all Alice could hear was: I have class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She raised her hand.
I have commitments on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, she said carefully. I can stay late other days.
Her manager looked at her as though shed uttered something scandalous.
What commitments? he asked.
Alice felt her face flush.
Evening classes.
Workplace training? he clarified.
No. Drawing.
Someone snorted quietly at the table. Alice ignored it. Her manager was silent, then said, Alice, were all in the same boat. Lets not have any personal whims.
The word whims stung more than she expected. She nodded, though she felt herself shrinking inside. Afterwards, a younger male colleague winked, The artist, eh? As long as the reports dont suffer.
Alice managed a smile and felt her ears burn.
That evening, she attended class anyway. On the Tube, she wondered if her manager was right. Maybe it was childish. Maybe she should just get on with things like a proper grown-up. But when she reached the classroom and saw a still-lifea simple mug and apple on grey clothshe relaxed. Here, she wasnt required to be useful. Here, she was required only to look.
By the middle of the course, the tutor suggested the group take part in a small show at the local library. No pressurejust a display board in the hall, name tags, friends invited. Alice wanted to pull out. Showing her work felt more terrifying than staying at work late.
Dont see the exhibition as an exam, said the tutor. Its just a chance to see what youve done.
So Alice agreed. She chose three pictures: a still-life in pencil, a cityscape in watercolour, and a portrait of her son shed done in secret from a photo. The portrait was a bit lopsided, but the eyes were alive.
That was when the financial blow landedthe one Alice worried about. Davids work cut his pay, and he came home grim-faced.
Look, he said, when they were alone in the kitchen. Well need to rethink the budget. The mortgage is still there.
Alice nodded. She was already mentally crossing everything non-essential off the list.
And, David looked at her, maybe you could put your course on hold? Come back to it later.
Alice felt a wave of stubbornness rise upquiet but solid, not angry.
Ive already paid to the end, she said. Theres less than a month left.
Its not about the money, David frowned. Its that youre using up your time. You get home late and tired. Our son looks after himself. So do I, really.
Alice nearly replied that their son had long been managing on his own, that David himself was often self-contained, that she was always exhausted no matter what. But the words stuck. She saw, suddenly, that David wasnt the enemy; he was simply frightened that the scaffolding holding up their life together might start to wobble.
I could reduce my hours at work, she heard herself say. Or switch to partial remote. Ill ask.
David raised his eyebrows. Are you serious?
Alice wasnt sure. Saying it out loud made it real.
I dont want to keep living like this, she said softly. I dont want to just survive.
David was silent. Finally, he said: I dont get it. But I dont want you regretting it.
Alice thought, I already regret itbut not the course.
Her worst day on the course came when they were sketching a plaster head. Alice did her best, spent two hours measuring, erasing, redrawing. She thought shed finally got it. When the tutor checked, Alice looked up, hopeful.
The tutor studied her drawing and said, Alice, youre very careful. But youre always afraid to make a mistake. Thats why theres no form here. Youre doing outlines, not volume.
Alices throat tightened.
I am trying, she said, sounding pitiful.
I know, the tutor nodded. But effort isnt enough. You need to let yourself spoil the page. Otherwise all youll ever do is the right thingdead, not alive.
Those words werent unkind, but they hit home. Alice realised it was about more than drawingher job, her life, her habit of making herself convenient. She sat, stared at the plaster head, and wanted to give up. To go back to where she knew how to be right. Where people valued her for conscientiousness.
That night, she came home, dumped her bag in the hall and didnt go to the kitchen. Instead, she locked herself in the bathroom, leaning on the sink for ages. The mirror showed a woman with tired eyes and graphite on her fingertips. Im ridiculous, she thought. I thought I could start again, and look at me now. She wanted to message the tutor and say she was quitting. To cancel the exhibition, hide her art, put the watercolours back above the cupboard.
She left the bathroom to find her son sitting in the kitchen doing homework. David was reading on his phone. Alice put the kettle on, got out mugs. Her hands trembled.
Mum, her son muttered, not looking up. Are you coming to my match tomorrow? Were playing the other Year Ten class.
Alice blinked.
Ill be there, she said.
Dont be late, he added.
David glanced up. You alright? he asked.
Alice wanted to say fine, but couldnt.
Not really, she admitted. My tutor said today everything I do is lifeless.
David looked surprised. Who said?
My drawing teacher. Butits true about me.
David set his phone down. Listen, he said, his tone gentler than usual. I might not understand your drawing. But I see you come alive when you talk about it. And I see you fret when someone criticises you there. Thats alright. Every jobs like that.
Alice looked at him, feeling something inside her loosennot because he was supportive, but because he finally spoke to her as a person, not as a function of the household accounts.
Im scared its just play-acting, she confessed. That all this is silly.
And whats serious? David replied. Sitting and putting up with it? Youre not quitting your job tomorrow.
Suddenly, Alice realised the choice wasnt give up everything versus stay stuck forever. The real choice was between hiding herself away again or keeping just a corner for being alive.
Next day, she went to her sons match, then work, then class. She arrived early, laid out paper and pencils. When the tutor set the task, Alice picked up a fresh sheet and decided: let it go wrong. Let it get messy. She drew bolder, without measuring every line. She made mistakes, erased, redrew. Bit by bit, real volume crept onto her pagerough, but unmistakably hers.
A week later, Alice walked into HR and asked about reducing her hours or going partly remote. They explained it was possible by agreement; shed need a letter and her managers approval, and her pay would drop accordingly. Alice walked out holding a list of the conditions, feeling ice-cold in her belly. Less money. Less security. But also, less sense of life passing her by.
She hesitated for days before asking her boss. Eventually, she caught him in a decent mood.
Id like to talk about my hours, she said. Could I move to part-time or two days remote?
He looked tired. Alice, you know this isnt a good time.
I know, she answered. Its not a good time for me, either. Im burning out.
That last part sounded almost a confession. She braced for sarcasm. Instead, her manager gave a long sigh.
Alright, he said. Well try two remote days for three months. If your performance doesnt dip, well extend. If it does, back to normal.
Alice nodded, knees shaking as she left. Not a victory, but something real.
The day of the library exhibition, Alice arrived early to help hang the work. The hall was bright, smelling of books and polish. Artwork filled the standssome colourful still-lifes, others careful graphite studies, a few scratchy sketches of people on buses. She pinned up her own, stuck on the name cards. Her hands were clammy again.
David came with their son. David browsed the displays, paused at Alices pictures, stopped at the portrait.
Is that me? her son asked, surprise in his voice.
Yes, said Alice.
He peered closer. WeirdI do look like that. Only I look a bit serious.
Alice wanted to apologise, say she couldnt capture his exact look. Instead, she told him, You do look like that sometimes.
He gave a crooked grin. Thats cool, Mum.
David was quiet, then murmured, I had no idea it could be so real.
Alice looked at her drawings and saw more than faults. She saw hours she had clawed back from routine. How shed learned not to hide behind neatness. Her fears hadnt gonethey just werent the only voice anymore.
When the visitors had left, Alice took her work down and put the pictures in a folder. The tutor approached.
You looked more relaxed tonight, she said.
Alice nodded. I realised I dont have to be good straight away. I just have to do it.
The tutor smiled. Thats the real work.
Later, back home, Alice put the folder beside her sons books. She didnt stash it out of sight. On the kitchen table lay the HR letter detailing her new work schedule, and beside it, a revised household budget she and David had drawn up.
Alice poured herself some water, sat by the window, and looked out at the close. Windows in the flats opposite went dark one by one. Tomorrow would bring work, emails, and deadlines as usual. In the evening, another class, another stubborn blank page. She was still afraid. But fear was no longer an excuse to stop.
She pulled out the failed plaster head sketch, the shapeless one. On the back, she wrote: Allow yourself to spoil it. Then she put the drawing away, closing the folder like you close a door to a room you know you can visit again.
