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Why I’m Thankful for the Hard-Earned Lessons of Age
What I’ve learned about life, faith, and writing since turning forty
I swallowed a cat o’ nine tails of truth today, and it still sits, painfully lodged in my throat. I am middle-aged — according to Kate Winslet, anyway. In her 2021 Emmy acceptance speech for Mare of Easttown, Winslet referred to herself as “middle- aged,” and a part of me died inside. We’re only a few years off, Kate and I, and I felt sucker-punched by the pugilist reality of her words. Until recently, I felt like a kid.
I lucked out in the ageless genes department. I’m often mistaken for much younger than I am — for which I have my parents to thank. I’d like to think I have a youthful spirit, and I’m prone to teary fits of laughter. I love adventure.
Ironically, when I was a kid, adults repeatedly remarked on my old soul. I had wisdom and insight, they’d say. I share this not as a humble brag, but to paint a dichotomy between who everyone thought I’d grow to be verses the reality of my life.
Alas, I’m not a kid. I’ve turned the dreaded forty corner. If I’m lucky, I’ve reached my halfway point on this Earth. A tragedy could even take me as I write this, and I’m left wondering what legacy I leave behind. At twelve, after watching Dead Poets Society, my motto became…
