Cars aren’t made to be driven one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes, but that’s how I’m driving my life right now. Somehow, between trying to keep up with the rapid changes of aging parents, a teenage boy, grown girls and our full work at Lovely Village, I feel as if I’m trying to catch my breath while life flies by.
My body is both disconnected and on the verge of tears in a short amount of time. Apparently, even a healthy hormone range and a good thyroid can thwart what comes with midlife. Suddenly, I’m sympathetic to my mom’s crashouts when I was in high school and college. How many are with me?
I’m close to 50 and still trying to wrap my head around my own dreams; supporting my kids’ goals; the salient understanding that my dad’s time on earth is drawing to a close; and the transition of Lovely Village to an open residential for women and kids.
None of these feel like easy lifts.
The summer seems like it’s only just starting but Walmart is stocked with school supplies. I’m not ready for this transition, but digging my heels in doesn’t help. As the old country song goes, “Time marches on.”
I sound so old now.
At first this pressure — this constriction — brings up fear. I’m afraid of what the future holds, that I won’t have what I need to meet each moment.
A closer look reveals grief — and love. Grief in that my body knows I’m losing a lot. My oldest is leaving for a job in Amarillo, my middle will be a senior in college (how?) and my youngest is entering his last years of high school as an incoming junior. Both Brett and I will face the loss of family members sooner than later which means holidays and traditions will bear a void.
Love is here too, uncovering an onslaught of precious memories that I didn’t even ask for: Dance parties in the kitchen, my daughters playing dress-up and my baby boy’s chubby feet that someone swapped out for a size 12. The days that seemed so long and hard, nostalgia has now sprinkled with fairy dust.
I’ve never been more grateful for the life we’ve built and simultaneously felt scared of the unknown. Deep down I trust in the goodness that’s ahead, but at 48 I’m sober minded. I know friends who’ve lost children and spouses, I’ve stared down diagnoses, and also, it’s 2026 — we have lived a lot of life together folks.
In this game of life, it seems I’ve lost more grip of my ego and control. In order to live lighter, I’ve invested a lot of hours in prayer, in counseling and in community, easing the ache of old wounds. The problem is I used to know more and be able to spin a little faster. I’ve traded being anxious for feeling my anxiety, and this has slowed my roll. Healing is feeling, but it’s not convenient and certainly not quick. Bummer.
I don’t know if I’m ready for what’s next, for this turning of the tides, but I do know I can return to the practice of making space.
Space to open the toolbox that I’ve been building for the last decade and use what’s in there: contemplation, music, movement, solitude, humor, writing, silence. I can find what I need, feel what I need to, even in this in-between.
I can remind myself that transition too, is a space for love.
