on: Middle Age at 31
I’m not sure you would consider me “middle age”. Technically, probably not. Because if I were middle age, at 31, I would be set to die by 62. Which is entirely possible, but not exactly the average life expectancy of a woman living in the UK. Perhaps I’m not middle age, but I have hit a point in life that I no longer feel young.
Last week, I joined a ZOOM call advertised for “people trying to get into journalism”. Perfect. An opportunity to learn about a field I know nothing about but am interested in getting involved with. I prepared my space – good lighting, earphones in, computer charging. All ready to absorb information that would be the spark to make me famous. The mediator of the call let me in and 50 faces popped up on my screen. Each face, no more than 21-years-old. Brimming with life. Not a wrinkle. Not a grey. Bubbly. Vivacious. Full of potential. Much younger than me.
But I feel like I’m 18. Like I’m just starting university. No commitments. No responsibilities. With high aspirations. And big dreams. Then, every once in a while, BAM. It hits me. I am 31, THIRTY-ONE. I have a mortgage. And a husband. And THREE kids. I have wrinkles. C-section scars. Grey hairs. And I enjoy “a glass of wine with dinner”. When did I become an adult?
I’m 31, but I have no clue what is happening in my life right now. I want to be home with my boys. It means to so much to be to raise them – to create world changers and lovers right under my own nose. I want to be a nurse (for which I have no training to do so). To heal and care and provide hope. I want to teach. To prepare children for the world ahead and love them when no one else has. I want help women that have been trafficked. Give them resources and power. I want to be a friend. Available at any time of the day. I want to love Jesus. But not always sure how. I want to keep my house clean. Or at least, the sink clear. I want to have a relationship with Dave. Based on friendship and passion and enjoyment. And very recently, I REALLY want to write.
Writing. I have always loved it, but never thought of making a career of it, until recently. The last three weeks have been filled with a stress I have never known so acutely. The stress of failing. Because every morning, I spend nearly an hour sending out ideas to editors. And every morning, I get dozens of rejections. People on the other end of my computer, letting me know – politely – that my ideas aren’t good enough. That my writing isn’t good enough. Failure.
I feel like I’m too “old” to switch life up a bit. To dive into the unknown. It scares me off. Makes me feel vulnerable. Makes me regret past decisions. The tornado of thoughts pummels through my mind, until - perspective. I have only been living as an adult (since 21) for ten years. I have a lot of life left in me. Time to pursue what I love. Time to make mistakes. Time to get back up. There is no rush. So I can love my boys without distraction, and treat writing as a creative pursuit, void of the expectation and stress. I’m ONLY 31, after all.
Is there a midlife change you have made? Or want to make? Something you have always wanted to pursue, but feel too scared to jump into? Jump with me! The worst that can happen – is that we fail. I’m not advocating for leaving your stable profession to try your hand at having an income from your sketchbook. But I would love if people got back to me with stories of change. Stories of hobbies pursued. Passions pounced upon. And dreams chased.
Let’s do it together.