I’m fifty-eight years old.
It feels like yesterday when I attended my father-in-law’s sixtieth birthday celebration.
Except he’s eighty-four now, and I’m not sure how this happened so fast.
It was a lovely but cold Sunday morning in Northern Sweden. My husband and I were sipping coffee in front of wood-burning stove, the fire adding to the cozy feeling of the room. And I suddenly broke down in tears. The poor man didn’t even know why I was crying as he held me.
I love living.
I’ve been so busy wondering what I should be doing with my life to stay relevant. Now I realize I’ve been asking myself the wrong question. Maybe just being alive and constantly growing means I’m enough. I think I may have to ask a different question.
What do I want to do with the time I have left?
I’ve considered working again. A local position has opened up, one that I’d be really good at, and it would help me feel more connected. But my heart is in writing, although it can be lonely at times. The question of purpose continues to pop into my mind. Working makes it easier to find it.
I’ve spent much of my life being needed. As a mother, a wife, and a professional. These roles gave my days purpose and structure. But as life changes, I’m beginning to realize that I have an opportunity to decide for myself what comes next.
And yet, I find myself still waiting.
Waiting for what, exactly?
I’m waiting for my husband to retire and for the dog to no longer need me. I’m waiting to make sure the kids are all independent and living on their own. I find it difficult to give myself permission to fully live my own life.
But I’ve begun to realize that if I keep waiting for every responsibility to end, I may spend the rest of my life waiting.
I wasn’t crying because I was afraid of getting older. I was crying because I suddenly realized how easy it would be to let another twenty years slip by while I waited for life to happen.
One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up and be eighty-four years old. I don’t know what those years will bring, but I don’t want to spend them on autopilot.
So today, I went on a walk with my aging dog and looked at the walk as something to enjoy, not something I had to do.
I put aside my phone and social media and spent time reading articles on Substack. I’ve decided to take a free course on AI, made plans to see a friend, and finally committed to swimming laps at the local pool I’ve been meaning to visit.
And I’ve booked a trip home to see my own parents.
Because I’ve spent enough time saying “one day.”
As if one day were guaranteed.
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