I’m 39. A graphic designer. Or was. Now I just… exist. My kids, both gone to college in the fall. The house is so quiet it screams. My husband, he’s like a stranger, always has been really, but now it’s just us two in this empty echoing shell. No distractions. And I’m noticing things. Little things. Forget where I put my keys, sure, that’s normal. But it’s more. I’ll be in the middle of a design, something I’ve done a thousand times, and I just… blank. The word for a certain font, a command in Photoshop, just gone. Poof. Like it was never there. It’s happening more and more. And I see my friends. They’re my age, some older. Sharp as ever. Starting new businesses, running marathons, remembering everything. Me? I feel like I’m already fading out. Like I’m losing pieces of my brain every day. Is this… is this just what happens? Am I getting old, already? Before 40? It feels like premature rot. Like I’m falling apart, and no one else notices because they’re all too busy living their full, vibrant lives. Or maybe they do notice and they just don't say anything. I used to be so good at this. So quick. Now I second-guess everything. I have to write down every single thought, every deadline, every little thing, just to keep it all straight. My brain feels full of cotton, not ideas. I look at my hand, and it feels… older. I’m scared. Really scared. What if I can’t do my job anymore? What if this is just the beginning? What if I'm just… done? Empty. Like the house.