You’ve arrived at a remarkable point in your life. Your friends often tell you how lucky you are. You found your life partner (25 wonderful years together!), have raised two amazing kids, and created a warm, inviting home. You’ve cultivated friendships that stretch across miles, a loyal rescue dog by your side, and a career that many can only dream of. You truly have it all, and deep down, you recognize this blessing. You express gratitude to the universe, to your guardian angel, and even to whatever higher powers may exist. “Thank you,” you murmur softly. “Thank you.”
Time is racing by, and you often find yourself uttering those familiar phrases to friends and acquaintances: “Time flies,” “This year will be gone before we know it,” or “How is it already summer? It feels like it was just snowing yesterday.” A fleeting glimpse of your reflection in a store window momentarily jolts you; you could swear you saw your mother. But she’s been gone for eight years. That moment lingers, prompting you to change your hairstyle or invest in a new dress. You embrace your age, but the resemblance to your mother—who you lost too soon—troubles you.
As you scroll through social media, you see updates from peers, some even younger than you: a sudden heart attack, a battle with cancer, an unexpected divorce. You read about resilience and struggles, the ongoing fight for hope, and wonder, “What’s next?” You count your blessings, knocking on wood, and feel a pang of guilt. Why are you the fortunate one?
It sometimes feels like you’re in a protective bubble—nothing truly catastrophic has befallen you. Well, except for that health scare earlier this year with pneumonia that escalated into sepsis. How did that happen? The doctors are unsure. You feel lucky to have pulled through, yet you wrestle with the notion: Are you strong for surviving, or weak for getting so ill in the first place? There’s no clear answer. All you can do is celebrate another birthday and indulge in an extra slice of cake. After all, you’ve emerged from a brush with death, and the reward is a renewed perspective on life.
You often lose track of the year, and even the day of the week can escape you. You have gaps in your memory—friends will reminisce about past experiences, and you can only listen in awe, as if their memories belong to someone else. Their stories fill in the blanks left by your own forgotten recollections, now lost in the shuffle of responsibilities and daily life. “Baby brain,” they called it during your pregnancy, but no one mentioned it can linger indefinitely.
Soon, you’ll be turning 50—not this year, or the next, but soon enough. That milestone number looms ahead, marking your mid-century point. It once seemed ancient, back when you were newly married and your boss proudly shared his 50th birthday. It felt as if life would be set in stone, solid and unchanging. Stability is comforting—you tell yourself. Predictability is what you crave. Yes, health, happiness, financial security, and career achievements are all blessings. Yet, there’s a flicker of wildness beating in your heart, urging you to scream at the top of your lungs—not out of anger or sadness but simply to release the pent-up energy inside you.
You recall reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed last year. You resonated with her journey, though you’re long past her age in the book. You’ve never hiked a day in your life, but you understand the search for something more. Instead of traveling, you write, capturing the fleeting moments of this human experience. A line from your favorite ’80s film comes to mind: “We’re all going through this,” Rob Lowe’s character asserts. You were just a teenager when you first saw it, but now, you could be the mother of those characters, yet you still feel like you’re on the brink of something significant.
This day—right now—is what you have. You want to memorize every detail, yet you know that by this time next year, this moment will blend into the tapestry of your life. As memories intertwine, you’ll continue to document your journey, reminding yourself of who you are and where you’ve been. “Who is this person?” you might ask yourself in 10 or 20 years. “I don’t recognize her.” But deep down, you know it’s still you, with that wildness still pulsing beneath your skin. You’re still on the edge—this is still your time.