24 More

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the number 24. Not because I have a sudden interest in mathematics. Not because I just heard Bruno Mars’s 24k Magic, and hot damn, that song still makes me move. And not because I just learned that in numerology, the number 24 is associated with harmony, love, balance, and abundance. And while I know nothing about numerology, I kind of love that connection.

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No, I have been thinking about the number 24 for a much simpler reason.

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I am 56 years old. Ugg, now that is a number I do not like! It feels like a fake number someone assigned to me without my permission because in my head and body, I think I am somewhere between 35 and “old enough to know better but probably going to do it anyway.”  In 24 years, I will be 80. And while none of us really knows how much time we will get, 80 feels like the age when things start breaking down a little bit. The body. The mind. The independence. Hopefully not completely, but enough to make you aware that time is no longer this endless thing sitting out in front of you.

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For those of us who live in New England, you know that the first sign of spring and the warmer weather is a turning point for us. After months of freezing temperatures, seasonal depression, darkness, and snow, the month of May brings a renewed sense of hope and the collective decision that life is worth living again.

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Summers in New England almost feel sacred, and if I am lucky, I may get 24 more of them.

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For reasons I can’t fully explain, summers now remind me how precious all of this really is. When I was younger, I never thought much about time. There was always so much of it ahead of me, but at some point, you do start to feel the tug.

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A few years ago, after a very painful breakup, I made the decision that changed my life. I decided that I was no longer going to wait for someone to start living mine.

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I wasn’t going to wait for the commitment.

I wasn’t going to wait for someone to take the trip.

I wasn’t going to wait for my someone to celebrate my birthday and the holidays.

I wasn’t going to wait for certainty, stability, permission, or someone to hold my hand.

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Although full transparency, my heart desperately wanted someone to hold it.

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So I went.

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I traveled the world.

I built the business.

I ate in restaurants alone.

I shared the popcorn at the movies with no one.

I wiped my own tears.

I pushed myself.

I learned how to be alone without letting loneliness define me.

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And honestly, I am proud of the version of myself I grew into during that time. Because there is a big difference between being alone and allowing your life to become small. I refused to let mine become small.

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But lately, something has shifted. The travel itch has quieted a bit. The constant need to prove to myself that I could survive alone has softened. Life feels steadier now. And many nights, I find myself sitting on my couch thinking: Okay…now what?

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It is a strange question because, objectively, my life is and has been great. I’ve raised three incredible daughters who somehow became smart, ambitious, hilarious, beautiful, and productive human beings despite the fact that I was winging motherhood most of the time.

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I’ve been married.

I’ve loved hard.

I’ve built a successful career.

Started my own business.

Lost a beloved parent.

Support an aging parent.

Maintain and cherish incredible friendships.

Invest in fun and strange hobbies (ask me about my fascination with fungi sometime).

Survived heartbreak from someone I thought was my soulmate.

And survived myself a few times too.

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I have done most of the things society tells us women should do to create a meaningful life. I’ve checked off a lot on the “list.”  So why do I still feel this quiet hum inside me that there has to be more?

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And to be clear, I am not talking about more stuff, achievements, status, or validation. I think I’ve spent enough years chasing and accomplishing things to realize those highs fade too. I mean more meaning. More purpose. More fulfillment. More something that makes you stop and actually feel your life while you’re living it.

Maybe that is what starts happening when you begin feeling the tug of time. You stop asking yourself what else you can accomplish and start asking yourself what actually matters now. It feels like the milestones stop carrying the same emotional weight they once did. I think this is the part nobody prepares you for. When the striving and proving quiet down, there is a strange loss of momentum that comes with it. You spend so many years chasing, building, proving, surviving, raising, accomplishing, fixing, planning, pushing, and evolving that eventually you wake up one day and realize you are no longer entirely sure what is driving you anymore.

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And that feeling has become very unsettling to me. How do you fulfill a craving that you cannot fully name yet? A different kind of passion? A different kind of purpose? A different kind of aliveness? Honestly, where does one even look to find all that?

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How do you figure out what is next after you have already lived so much life? How do you discover a new passion when old motivations no longer hit the same way they used to? That is a big part of the quiet hum I have been feeling. Not just the awareness of time moving so quickly, but the realization that I want the years I have left to actually mean something to me.

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My life has been beautiful, difficult, messy, heartbreaking, exciting, dramatic, and meaningful all at once. And I wouldn’t change a thing about it. But I think there comes a point where survival and achievement stop being enough on their own. You start craving depth instead of momentum. And somewhere inside all of this, I have become acutely aware of how quickly life moves. Not just time itself, but the world around us. Technology moves fast. Trends even faster, and trying to keep up culturally? Almost impossible. And if you are not careful, I think it becomes very easy to slowly disconnect from the world while still technically participating in it.

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I see it happening with older generations all the time. Especially with my mother. In addition to her declining physical health, I see her frustration with technology, with cognitive decline, with feeling disconnected and almost abandoned in a world that no longer seems designed for her. And I think about how many people quietly carry that same feeling. The feeling of becoming less seen. Less needed. Less connected. And that scares the shit out of me.

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It also breaks my heart. Maybe because deep down, all of us are afraid of disappearing a little.

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My kids have always teased me because I have always had an overwhelming love for babies and elderly people. And they are right. Babies represent possibility. They are blank slates. Pure, incapable of lying and hurting others, and untouched by the world. I love the innocence of babies. And older people? I am fascinated by them. Their wisdom, experience, stories, perspective, resilience. Life actually lived. They are entire libraries of life experience walking around, completely underestimated by society because they don’t know how to use their iPhones or post a reel. Meanwhile, they have survived wars, loss, marriages, raising children, financial hardship, grief, and life before Google Maps. In many ways, their lessons around patience, resilience, common sense, perspective, and human connection still outperform whatever new “life hack” society is currently obsessed with.

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So, I sit here now and wonder, maybe the idea of fulfillment really changes as we get older. Maybe there comes a point where life stops being entirely about building yourself and starts becoming more about giving something back. Maybe that’s the “more” I have been craving and searching for.

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I have no idea what my next chapter looks like yet. But I know I feel pulled towards something bigger than just myself. Maybe that’s helping elderly people feel less disconnected from a world that's moving too fast. Maybe that is helping bridge generations that desperately need each other more than they realize. Maybe it’s something I haven’t discovered yet. I am still figuring that part out. But this much I know for sure:

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Do not wait to live your life.

Do not wait for that relationship.

Do not wait for someone to finally choose you.

Do not wait for perfect timing.

Do not wait until you have enough money.

Do not wait until you feel fearless.

Do not wait for life to stop being messy.

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Because one day you wake up and you realize that your summers are numbered. And once you feel the tug of time, you start understanding that life is not really about how impressive your resume is, how much you have achieved, or how perfect your plans were. It’s about whether you actually participated while you were here.

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Whether you loved people well.

Whether you stayed curious.

Whether you kept evolving.

Whether you gave something back.

Whether you fully allowed yourself to experience the beautiful, heartbreaking, ridiculous privilege of being alive.

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I have 24 more summers left. Hopefully more. Regardless, I don’t want to waste a single one of them.

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