Middle Age Isn’t 50

I used to think middle age was 50. That’s what they say, right? Halfway there.
But if most of us won’t see 90… middle age isn’t 50. It’s more like 37, 38 if you’re lucky. That hits different.

And I’m not sharing this to be morbid. I’m sharing it because some of us are still living like we have all the time in the world.

We say, “I’ll slow down next year.”
“I’ll travel when things settle.”
“I’ll rest when I retire.”

We work ourselves into exhaustion and hand over our best years to jobs that would replace us in five business days.
We defer joy.
We shelf the dreams.
We tell ourselves we’re being responsible.

And maybe we are.

But one day, the calendar gets quiet.
The kids move out.
The office keycard stops working.
The house doesn’t feel as full.
And that “someday” we were saving everything for… doesn’t feel the same anymore.

I’ve been thinking about that more lately—especially in the quiet evenings with Melanie.
We’ve started naming the things we still want to do—not the big flashy stuff, but the real stuff.
The dinners that turn into slow walks.
The trips where we hold hands more than we hold phones.
The kind of memories we’ll carry when our bodies aren’t as quick but our hearts are still soft.

And it hit me… I don’t want to wait until life slows down to start living it.

Maybe you don’t either.

So this is the gentle nudge.
To drink the wine while it still tastes good.
To take the trip before you’ve got to climb stairs slowly.
To say “yes” to joy before the obligations swallow you whole.

You don’t get this version of your life back.
This age.
This chapter.
This stretch of time with these people.

And if your calendar is full but your soul is tired…
If your job is steady but your dreams are starving…
If your heart keeps whispering, “I thought there’d be more than this…”

Maybe it’s time to listen.

Because middle age might not be when the wrinkles come.
It might be when you finally realize:
You were always allowed to live.
You just kept asking for permission.

And if that’s true…
Then maybe today isn’t just another Monday.
Maybe it’s the first day of the second half.

Don’t waste it.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Trap That Looks Like a Dream

Image
Harvey was just a pup in this photo—barely three months old, curled up at my feet, already deciding I was his person. He didn’t need much: just a soft place to rest, a quiet presence nearby, and the certainty that someone was staying. That’s the thing about dogs. They don’t care how fancy the destination is. They just want to know you're walking in the same direction. And that got me thinking. We live in a world obsessed with possible. You could go viral. You could become the next big thing. You could win the lottery, make millions, retire early. And yes—you could. But possibility isn’t the same as probability. Possibility is a flash. Probability is a foundation. One is lightning. The other is brick by brick. The trap is this: we’ve been sold the idea that anything is possible—which is technically true. But when we build our lives on it, we’re not planning. We’re gambling. We’re betting our futures on exceptions instead of patterns. We’re scrolling past the hard work, seduced by so...
Read more

The Ride I Never Asked For

Image
He told me to get in the car. I did—because when you're a kid and a grown man says that, you go. You don’t ask questions. You don’t expect much. But you definitely don’t expect what came next. We drove for a while, pulled into some parking lot, and without warning, he turned to me and punched me in the mouth. No conversation. No buildup. Just a fist and the words, “Stop being a little bitch.” I don’t remember what came after. Not really. I just remember trying to figure out how to explain my face to the world. I made something up—I don’t even recall what the lie was now. Only that I learned fast how to cover pain. How to tuck it in and keep it moving. You learn to survive. But here’s the thing: survival isn’t the same as healing. That punch didn’t just split my lip—it split something deeper. It told me I wasn’t safe. That I didn’t matter. That the men who were supposed to protect me could just as easily be the ones who hurt me. And for a long time, that scar shaped the ...
Read more

She Never Quit. And Neither Can I

Image
My Ma was tough in ways most people will never understand. Not because she wanted to be. Because she had to be. My Ma loved music—whether she was playing an instrument or just listening with her whole heart, it lit her up. I love music too. Maybe that’s something she passed down to me. Maybe that’s how she kept a part of herself alive through the hard times. You’d never guess that behind the soft eyes and warm laugh was a girl who ran from unspeakable pain at 15 years old. A girl who survived things she never should’ve had to endure. Who carried more than her share… and somehow still found a way to give love to her kids. She raised us with whatever she had, even when it wasn’t much. We had laughter in our home. We had dysfunction, too. But I can tell you this: we had her. And that mattered. There were times I saw her cry. Times I saw her hold it in. Times I watched her get knocked down, but never stay there. That's the thing about resilience. It’s not shiny. It doesn’t ...
Read more