Bernard, one of Virginia Woolf’s fictional characters in The Waves (1931), offers this hauntingly relatable monologue
Things have dropped from me. I have outlived certain desires…I am not so gifted as at one time seemed likely. Certain things lie beyond my scope. I shall never understand the harder problems of philosophy. Rome is the limit of my travelling. ...I shall never see savages in Tahiti spearing fish by the light of a blazing cresset, or a lion spring in the jungle, or a naked man eating raw flesh. As I drop asleep at night, it strikes me sometimes with a pang that I shall never see savages in Tahiti spearing fish by the light of a blazing cresset, or a lion spring in the jungle, or a naked man eating raw flesh. Nor shall I learn Russian or read the Vedas. I shall never again walk bang into the pillar-box.
A friend once described turning 50 as finally arriving at the wonder years. Not because everything is magical and sparkling, but because you now wonder where the car keys are. You wonder whether that tiny hotel bottle says shampoo or body wash because you forgot your glasses. You wonder where your phone is, but you can’t call it because it’s on silent.
And somewhere in between all this wondering, something surprising happens. You discover the quiet freedom of middle age.
You start to relax. You understand the futility of trying to keep up with everything. You stop trying to impress.
Those layers of ambition, comparison, and proving your worth start to fall off. And what’s left behind is something raw, honest, and compelling. You begin to see clearly what matters to you: what you want to do with your time, your energy, your life.
And here's a message that doesn’t get enough press: we don’t leave the world having neatly wrapped up our projects. We will leave behind unfinished to-dos, hopes, and dreams, overflowing inboxes, and exit without a perfect sign-off. It's not going to feel like closing a book after the final chapter.
Instead, it’ll be messy—like starting an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner and then getting called out mid-prep to handle an emergency across the country. The turkey will rot. The chopped veggies will shrivel and die. Maybe a kind relative or friend may salvage the cranberry sauce. And if they’re lucky, they get to enjoy the apple pie that never made it out of the freezer.
My daughter recently shared a story about Columbia University’s recent graduating class—a 20-year-old and a 77-year-old both walked across the stage. The younger graduate, I'm sure, will be thrilled with their degree. Still, if statistics are any indication, they will change their jobs five to seven times in their lifetime, so this degree, like many other accomplishments, would be another thing they do.
But, I’ll wager that diploma means something markedly more to the 77-year-old. Because at that age, you don’t sign up for graduate school to impress anyone. You do it because it sets your soul on fire.
The list of things I won’t do far outweighs (by galactic proportions) the things I will. Instead of mourning that, I’m happy to report that I find it deeply liberating (phew!) I don’t have to take every shot. I can pick one and give it my full focus. Or not.
So let’s welcome the wonder years—not with resistance, but with reverence. Instead of trying to fight the clock, let’s embrace the fact that it’s still ticking.
Sure, we may forget the name of the movie that gave us the line, “You had me at ‘Hello,’” or the name of the actress who said it. But we remember the message of the scene and how it made us feel.
Let’s prioritize the now. Sign up for that class or take that trip or write that book—not because it’ll go on a résumé, but because it means something to you.
True liberation is when life becomes less about performance and more about purpose.
The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected. Robert Frost
PS: Jerry Maguire, Renée Zellweger