In a few weeks, I will be 43 years old. Those words are difficult to comprehend. I have no idea how that happened. 43 seems a life lived. Not to suggest the precipice of death “life lived”, but enough to gleam some answers. I have more questions than answers, and the questions seem to multiply and the answers grow distant.
From my 20’s to my late 30’s, I sat on a rocket ship and pointed north career wise. More. More files. More clients. More money. More accolades. Next mountain. I didn’t ask where the ship was going, but I got on, frying my cortisol levels in the process. Equating money (not finance money) with stability. With control. With “optionality.” That no longer works.
I wake up every morning and think “what is being asked of me?” I am a father perplexed that he is a father. I am a husband perplexed that he is a husband. I have many trappings I thought I should have. Every morning, I think: “There is something missing here.” Some level of soulfulness or meaning or reason or goal or point. There must be others out there. Legions of middle aged men that watch the sunrise, horrified of a looming death in the distance or close by, unsure what to do today, let alone 10 years from now. Do I no longer have mountains to scale? Am I done? The best I can do is distract myself until the melancholy dissipates. I have absolutely no answers at 43.