Cheyenne Jackson turns 50 today: “A number that once felt impossibly far away…now feels somehow right on time”

The multi-talented and strikingly handsome Cheyenne Jackson turns 50 today.

On this milestone, he shared some deep thoughts about his life:

Today I’m 50. I’ve been waiting a long time to do the Molly Shannon “I’m 50!”-high kick, and now I can for real. 50. A number that once felt impossibly far away…now feels somehow right on time. This past year has been a reckoning. My dog died. My best friend died.
Hollywood halted. Los Angeles burned. Grief has been my steady companion. “Hey girl, I see you’re back,” I say to her. She lingers for a while, we dance a bit…it’s slow and flirty at first, then it morphs quickly into a WWF match. I finally push her off, then she floats along like a burnt-sugar-scented cloud. What once was sweet is now scorched.
My beloved children are almost nine.
How? They are growing into their own bold, beautiful selves, and they remind me every day that joy is loud, messy, and everywhere…if I stay present enough to notice.
This year I stepped fully into my writing, not as a side passion,
but as another extension of my art.
My tough new lit agent was worried I would suck. Turns out I don’t. He was surprised. I wasn’t—but pretended to be. It’s a little thing I like to do. Pretending, you see…it’s been a theme in my life. The fear of not being good enough always nearby, waiting in the woods like a wet creature ready to pounce and flog me before I can do it all by myself. I ache to connect. I’m working on it. My friends push through my isolation. I refocused on my sobriety. I took it for granted. Treated it like gravity. So constant, you forget it’s holding you up. Trying to let myself feel more, hide less.
And yes, like so many immediate families, due to this impossible political hellscape, we’ve navigated differences. Tensions. Unsaid things.
But beneath it all, I’m still holding on to hope. For healing. Or maybe some “Love Can Build a Bridge”-style-JUDDS shit to happen and make it all better. And yet, through every tear, every missed soccer goal, every broken toe (mine), every broken foot (Willow’s), is Jason. My love. My north star. He sees me clearly, loves me ANYWAY, and reminds me (daily) that I’m not alone in any of this. So here’s to 50. Not a finish line. Not a starting line. Not a reinvention. Less performing. More being. And definitely more high kicks. ❤️