There’s a quiet panic that settles in when you realize you’re in what feels like your final act.
Not the dramatic kind. No curtain call. Just a slow, unsettling awareness that the road behind you is longer than the one ahead. And sadly, it feels as if the life you imagined never fully arrived. (Or in keeping the faith, it hasn’t arrived YET!)
Damn. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
You wonder how close you came to reaching your potential. You know you haven’t. You wonder if this is the final shape of your life, or just another detour you didn’t plan on taking. I am supposed to be in the theater with my name on the marquee outside, waiting for my next production to start, creating, painting, writing, getting massages, watching waves, taking long walks, yoga and tai chi classes, visiting art galleries, dining with the few friends that remain, or sitting in a big ass chair with a stack of food magazines!
You took Mom’s advice. Study accounting. You’ll always have something to fall back on. You’ll always be able to work. The world will always need folks to crunch numbers. You did what you were told. You worked. Boring and unfulfilling as it was, you worked; sometimes, several jobs at once. Did I say sometimes? I mean, mostly! You raised folks. You sacrificed. You postponed joy, postponed rest, postponed yourself, trusting that later would make good on all those delays. Later was supposed to be the payoff. Later was supposed to be freedom. I have never felt less free. WTH?
And yet here you are, in retirement, or at least something that looks like it on paper and yet forced to take a job just to make the numbers work. To PAY FOR YOUR HEALTH EXTORTION, I meant health insurance! Gee thanks! (you know who you are!) Supplement the supplement check. Cover the gap. Ease the anxiety. Somehow, impossibly, you’ve ended up punching a clock again after not punching one for 35 or 40 years. What in the actual f#?k!
That part stings more than you expect.
You’re back to living for the weekend. Back to counting days. Back to watching the clock, only now your patience is thinner, and the time feels infinitely more precious. Mondays arrive with a weight they shouldn’t have at this stage of life.
And then come the questions.
“So, how was your weekend?”
They ask it, smiling and with the best intentions. Casually. Coworkers half your age, full of time they don’t yet understand is finite. You force a smile and give the only honest answer you have: “ABOUT FIVE DAYS TOO DAMN SHORT!”
They laugh. You don’t. It ain’t funny!
Because at this age, weekends shouldn’t be the reward. Holidays shouldn’t feel like oxygen. Vacation days shouldn’t be counted like lifelines. You believed that this chapter would be different. That you’d finally be done doing what you HAD to do and would only be doing what you WANT to do. What you enjoyed. What fed you instead of drained you.
There’s gratitude, of course. You appreciate that someone hired you at this age, in a world that quietly discards older people the moment their hair grays or their pace slows. (“I DON’T MEAN ME.” In my nurse from Doc Holiday movie voice.) I CAN RUN CIRCLES AROUND THESE YOUNG FOLK! You know that isn’t nothing. You remind yourself to be thankful.
But resentment sneaks in anyway.
Resentment that survival is still dictating your choices. That after a lifetime of effort, you’re still negotiating with necessity instead of desire. That freedom feels conditional when it was supposed to be earned.
And in the quiet moments like driving home, lying awake, staring at darkness, you start questioning everything.
The decisions you made.
The risks you didn’t take. (and trust and believe I took many!)
The dreams you deferred one too many times.
The version of yourself you were sure you’d become.
No one really prepares you for this reckoning. For the grief of unmet expectations. For the strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness. For the feeling that time is suddenly loud AF.
And yet, here you are. Still showing up. Still breathing. Still capable of wanting more.
Questioning how you got here doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re awake. And as long as you’re awake, the story, however frustrating, and however unfair, ain’t completely over!
I’m going to figure it out folks and if you’re right there with me, you will too! Keep the faith. What else have we got?
That was one of the most artful and evocative reflections on aging I’ve ever read. You’ve found your voice and it’s a powerful one, especially because it strikes so many familiar chords. Keep on using your discontent to fuel your writing. You might prefer lounging under a palm tree with a margarita, but nobody wants to read happy shit. We have Facebook for that.
Coming from a professional, your comment has made my day. Thank you so much for your continued encouragement! You were the first person I shared any of my writing with and I printed your encouraging email reply and taped it to the wall. That was maybe 15 years ago. I ask myself each week, why I write. It is definitely not for the money, as this blog has generated less than $1 in the 5 plus years it has existed! I finally figured it out. I write because I have to. But I wouldn’t mind that whole palm tree scenario. It is 18 degrees right now! Missing southern CA.
Such a good piece. Great writing and reflections.
Thank you for your comment, and as always, your continued support and encouragement.