Halfway?

I live in the world of Luly. It’s not my world, I’m just visiting for a while. Guest or intruder, it’s not clear yet.

I spent my teen years discovering life. Discovering the world, art, languages, traveling. Falling in love. It hurt.

My 20’s were all about my career, I dove into releasing all my abilities, my ambition and my knowledge towards my goals. I got into the highest position in a company and discovered it was lonely.

I used my 30’s to create a family with a path unique to us, painfully birthing and building the home I never had, the home I dreamed about, fighting tooth and nails for everything I wanted. It was exhausting.

My 40’s are for me. My 40’s found me motherless. I now have to find it in me to sooth my own pains, wipes my tears and be there for me. I have to love myself, even though I don’t know how. As kids and teens we never worry about self love, we think ”it’s mom’s job to love me”, and we never learn how to love ourselves. The 40’s are for reality checks. And the sudden realization that, even in the best case scenario, you’re done half way, in most cases, the life that has happened is behind us and more than the life that will happen. So there is no more time for BS, no more patience and tolerance for unimportant things. My 40’s are for giving myself all the chances I have wasted on people who didn’t care. For giving myself space, understanding and grace. For the mental hug that “IT’S OK” brings. For “I’ve done enough, I’ve done A LOT.”

As children, we should have been taught that it’s not our job to make the others like us, our only job is to be ourselves. That should be enough for anyone, and when it’s not, it’s ok for them to leave and take their damaging pressure with them.

My 40’s are for grief. Not only for the premature loss of the person with whom my identity was forged, but also the grief of losing important people to indifference, to betrayal, to cowardness, to disappointments. There are no happy endings. Everything ends and that is a tragedy. We live like snails, marking our passing with a shimmering line that consumes us. Is it true that nothing really matters? Or that everything matters?

Maybe my 50’s will be the return to philosophy, in which we know that we find no answers, only more questions and doubts. The more we live, the less we know, I heard someone say. Maybe we’re not meant to know, but to feel.

I never did analysis and resolutions on New Year’s Eve or Day. I always do them on my birthdays. Seems appropriate. 42 analysis? I like the 40’s, they are painfully clear and wonderfully free. Resolutions? Live.