I'm listening to Madonna for inspiration as I write this column. In April I turn 40. I'm convinced it's the age of true courage. I look forward to re-inventing myself. It's the time to strip down my inhibitions and reveal my true self, in a way I couldn't when I was younger.

At 39, I reflect on the lessons I've learned, the insights gained. I have only one regret: having stopped the medication briefly. I took that risk; it could've resulted in a permanent detour from a life worth living. I was lucky to be spared, and I know that in return, God asks me to make things better for other people. Today I'm terrified of one thing only: meeting my maker and having fallen short of his expectations.

In my 20s, my first doctor predicted, "Your 30s will be prime time." This turned out to be true. I had to get the pain out of the way before I could experience the happiness. It made the victory that much sweeter. My recovery didn't happen in a flash.

Neither did the paranoia. It came on gradually, imperceptibly.

To remember is to understand. I believe I was born with the trigger for schizophrenia, and my earliest experiences nurtured my psychosis. The girls across the street taunted me when I was 6 years old. The neighborhood girls bullied me when I was a teen. In high school, I tried to be friends with a girl who invited everyone else to a sleep over party except me.

In college, I was displaced, cut off from my true self. In trying to find her, I hooked up with a trendy crowd at the radio station where I volunteered. In the solitude of the on-air studio, I played the music that comforted, was my constant companion on the nights I felt alone.

It took courage to confront the truth. Something wasn't working, and I had to find out. The first hospitalization wasn't the beginning of the end; it was the end of everything that had gone before. I had to crawl before I could walk; indeed, to learn vital skills. The medication evened out my moods and thoughts so that my true recovery could happen. It did-much later-and was worth the wait.

Going back to school opened the door, was the gateway to my new life. I felt it "established the floor" of what I could do. When I found my new job, things took off. I joined a writing workshop, started doing volunteer work and became a journalist.

Thirty-nine has been my breakthrough year. I scrawled down in my journal this new reality: It doesn't get much better than this. As 40 draws near, I savor every slice of life. I'm not looking to the future, but embracing the now.

I've come to the conclusion that ordinary acts speak volumes: how I carry myself; wear my jacket; treat the people I meet. A woman's verve is alluring, makes others delight in her presence. Last year, I joined a gym and I ventured into online dating. I celebrate my body, and seek to be in a long-term relationship. My goal is to publish my memoir when I'm 42.

Having lost my mind means there's nothing else I could ever fear losing. I'm not going to live in hiding for the rest of my life. I no longer spend time trying to impress anyone who would shun me because I have an illness. Early on in my recovery, I knew I had to "act as if" I fit in, so that I could be taken seriously in the real world. I played by other people's rules, and now I want to bend the rules.

I strive to live life on my own terms. That's the prerogative of getting older. I answer to only two people: myself, and my God. In these last few years, I've become who I am, more gloriously so. I'm living in peace, no longer at odds with the illness.

As a writer and a person in recovery, I've found my voice. I refuse to keep quiet. Like the Emile Zola quote, "If you asked me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud."

In my 30s, I hummed along to the beauty of life. I want to enter 40 singing.