Sophie White: Eighteen years ago, I thought I’d broken my brain and that the only relief would be to end my life. But I’ve survived all the way to 40

Well, I’m finally 40. I know, I know — “Finally,” says you — I have been teasing this event for months now. Officially turning 40 is great news for me because a) I’ve been identifying as 40 for years now, as evidenced by the fact that my bedtime is now 9pm and my hobbies are knitting, gossiping and sitting down; and b) my 40th birthday is great news as I’ve always had pretty low expectations of my own longevity since my first experience of suicidal ideation when I was 22 in 2007, through to my second one at 28 in 2013, third in 2018 and my most recent one in 2020.

I know, what a blast! Since 22, every birthday has felt like a milestone, an astounding achievement especially as I live with bipolar disorder. Of course, it’s not all profound. Since turning 40 I’ve been mulling on the many unanticipated upsides of getting old(er).



First up, at last, I’m brave enough to reject the societal peer pressure to like hummus. It’s over for me and chickpeas. They do NOT agree with me — it’s a wind issue, I’ll spare you.

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