You’ve reached a significant milestone, and it seems you have it all. That’s what your friends tell you. You found your life partner (25 years and counting!), have two wonderful children, a cozy and inviting home, and a circle of loyal friends, both near and far. You even have a devoted rescue dog and a fulfilling career that many only dream of. Yes, you truly have it all, and deep down, you know it. You express gratitude to the universe, your guardian angel, and even to the divine powers that may exist. “Thank you,” you murmur softly. “Thank you.”
Time feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, and you often hear familiar phrases from others: “Time is flying,” “This year will be over before you know it,” or “How is it summer already? It feels like winter was just yesterday.” One day, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window and momentarily think, “Is that my mother?” But she’s been gone for eight years. That fleeting thought lingers. You decide to change your hairstyle, purchase a new outfit. You embrace your age, yet you can’t shake the feeling of looking like your mother.
You scroll through social media and read about peers facing unexpected health crises, divorces, or other life upheavals. You see stories of resilience, determination, and the quest for hope, and you can’t help but feel thankful. “Please, not me or my family,” you whisper, grappling with a sense of guilt. Why are you the fortunate one?
It feels like you’re encased in a protective bubble. Nothing catastrophic has happened to you—well, not yet. You did nearly lose your life to pneumonia that escalated into sepsis. How did that happen? The doctors are baffled. You consider yourself fortunate to have survived, but you question whether your survival signifies strength or weakness. Life moves on, and you celebrate another birthday, indulging in a second slice of cake. You embrace this victory—a reminder that life is precious, and you are more aware of its fragility.
You sometimes lose track of the year or even the day of the week. Memories fade, and others recount shared experiences that you can’t recall. You hang onto their narratives, trying to fill the gaps in your memory with their retellings. You wonder if what they remember aligns with your own faded recollections. It’s like living with “baby brain,” a term that was tossed around during your pregnancies, yet it seems to have become a permanent state.
Soon, you will turn 50. Not this year or the next, but it is approaching. That milestone looms large, a marker of mid-life. When you first got married, the idea of turning 50 felt ancient, as if life had crystallized into a solid form rather than flowing freely. Stability is comforting, you remind yourself—health, happiness, and financial security are all desirable. Yet, there remains an urge within you, a wildness that longs for expression.
You remember reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed last year and resonating with her journey, even though you’re past the age she was during her adventures. You may have never hiked a day in your life, but you understand the search for something more. Instead of embarking on grand adventures, you put pen to paper, capturing the essence of this fleeting human experience. A line from your favorite ’80s movie, St. Elmo’s Fire, echoes in your mind: “We’re all going through this.” Although the characters were only 22 when you first saw it at 18, now you could be their mother, yet you still feel like you’re on the cusp of something significant.
Today is yours. You want to savor every moment, yet you know that by next year, this day will blend into a tapestry of memories—some vibrant, some dull. You’ll attempt to pen down your thoughts, hoping to preserve them for the future. One day, you may look back and wonder, “Who is this person?” But deep down, you’ll recognize that wild spirit still beating within you. You are still on the brink of discovery; this is still your time.