Another thing that’s changed for the better

It’s been just over a year since our youngest child left for college. But it’s only in recent weeks that I’ve started—really and truly—embracing this change in my life.

The first year I resisted—in subtle, unassuming ways. More work, more exercise, more busyness. I kept up the pace I had grown accustomed to. 

But recently, I can feel myself settling into the new normal. I’ve let my guard down, no longer trying to protect myself from what I feared would be a deep, internal emptiness. 

As I become more present and aware, I’m able to recognize the glimmers of midlife when they show up … in simple, everyday events.

An example

One afternoon last week I found myself with a couple of hours to spare before book club. I hadn’t yet finished the book, so I took a seat in the sun and savored the last few chapters. Afterwards, I still had about an hour to kill, so I put on my sneakers and headed out for a leisurely walk down the road. It was a beautiful fall afternoon—the trees were almost at peak foliage. Along the way, an old friend, who I hadn't seen since spring, stopped her car for a quick hello. It turns out she had had back surgery and sold her house since I last saw her, so there was a lot to catch up on.

When I eventually got back to my house, it was a little after 6 p.m. This meant I had a luxurious 20 minutes before book club began and only a 10-minute drive. I decided to leave early. 

This might sound like a boring, not-very-meaningful story. That is unless you knew the younger me. Even two years ago, my afternoon—and the person inhabiting it—would have looked completely different. 

On a similar day, I would have rushed from work to a soccer game to dinner prep to a book club that I would have arrived at half an hour late, having not finished—or maybe even begun—the book. And while I was there, trying to socialize with friends, I would have been thinking about something else that needed doing or feeling guilty for not being home. I wouldn’t have gone for the walk, connected with my friend, or left the house without fitting in five extra chores beforehand.

Ironically, while on a run the morning of book club, a former version of myself almost ran me into a ditch. As she whizzed by at 60 miles an hour on a narrow, dirt road, sending a plume of dust into the air, I caught sight of the woman’s face behind the wheel—tense and focused. Behind her, two little heads bobbed in the back seat. 

For two decades, I was that woman. Packing too many things into too small a window. Never allowing enough space between activities. Feeling rushed and disorganized. Running chronically late and arriving unprepared.

Things have changed. I have changed.

Last week, as I took in the fall color on my slow, meandering drive to the book club I would arrive at on time, I thought of that younger self. And I realized how simple my life has become. There is an even pacing to my days that I haven’t had in a long time. 

Activities feel like a string of single notes, not the clamor of an orchestra tuning up. 

A seamless line versus a patchwork quilt.

Events unfold methodically—one after the other—instead of all happening at once, like the wild frenzy of a fireworks finale.

It’s rare these days that I feel as if I'm cramming one too many things into an already packed mind and schedule. And when it happens, I push back. I cancel the “to do” that feels like too much. Because I’ve had a chance to remember what inner calm feels like, and I’m determined to protect it.

Realizing this has helped me embrace the beauty of this time of life in a way I hadn’t before. 

There are days when I still miss the chaos. Of being at the center of the web, where every tremor—anything I do or think—travels along a thread to someone else in my life. 

But there are more and more moments like this, when I’m sitting alone at my desk, looking out the window at the dimming light on the neighbor’s field. Watching them bring in the horses for the night. Feeling content and centered.

And with nothing else pressing, I finish this post—everything in my head having been spilled onto the screen. 

Then I take a breath, close my laptop, and head downstairs to make myself a cup of tea.