I wrote both posts last night while listening to Phoebe Bridgers's “I Know the End” and intentionally decided to share this one first. Getting out feels like announcing part of my new beginning, and I’m grateful for the few hundred souls who read these missives when I feel the call to send one out.
I’m writing this on the night of the rare Blue Super Moon from my childhood bedroom. Well, not quite. I was 18 when we moved here, so technically, “childhood” does not apply. And that “young adult” bedroom is now one of four offices (AKA museums) my father occupies for his various creative, historical, political and artistic explorations. So, officially, I’m in what used to be my sister’s room, but close enough.
I’m here playing a sort of “house” — experimenting with the hypothesis, “What does it mean if my parents want to age in place for as long as possible?” AKA: Can I live with them and not get activated by the past all the time?
Living with your parents when you’re almost 50 is a sort of active therapy that can only be done when you’ve done plenty (notice I didn’t say “enough,” we’ll get to that soon) of talk therapy and self-exploration that you can do it with some sort of psychological safety. I’ve hinted at a challenging childhood before, but when I decided what kind of daughter I wanted to be as my parents live out their days for me, I knew it was worth working to heal old wounds so I could show up for them. It’s not everyone’s path, and that’s OK. There’s no “right path,” merely different routes that lead to different destinations.
If you know me IRL, you might see that I could be classified as a self-help addict (notice I did not say “junkie” — let’s quit it with that word). I’ve likely sent you a meme, a horoscope, a podcast, a TED talk, a course, a book recommendation, a documentary reco…
(Honestly, though, have you seen Stutz yet? I know the recent Jonah Hill accusations — which you can read about here — might have some of you feeling reactive to that suggestion, but I swear the movie has a lot of heart. And I promise I will try not to torment you with pseudo-therapy language in this post.)
You get the point. I love (LOVE!) all these beautiful ideas that try to capture why we are the way we are and offer frameworks or concepts for how to be different if we want to. Most self-help generally aims to illuminate what we may be challenged with and confused about — while hopefully teaching us how to heal our hurtie parts so that we might thrive in our limited time in these meat suits on the floating ball we call home.
But applying it to one’s own life takes more than simply hearing an idea. There’s real work involved in sifting through the mud or patiently waiting for the lotus to bloom from it. That’s why, in self-help circles, we call it “the work.” It’s our life’s work to peel back the layers and come closer to ourselves. Hence, my avoidance of the word “enough.” A curious soul might keep going until their entire ego and human experience is nothing but soft, fuzzy dust in the dryer lint tray.
What I love most is that despite infinite knowledge and wisdom (that we can now share in myriad ways, but especially in TikToks), we don’t know shit, but dammit if we don’t keep trying to make sense of it all. I love us!
Allow me an ADHD tangent wherein I will make umpteen connections at rapid speed until finally (hopefully) it all makes sense near the end.
Recently, an acquaintance turned 50 and mentioned the impact of Bill Perkins, who wrote a book called Die With Zero. It sounded cool, and then I promptly forgot about it — until I ran into said acquaintance on the way to see the legend that is Patti Smith perform at the age of 77.
Patti Smith takes the stage in her full crone energy, and it’s a call to arms. She sings Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush,” which was written 50 years ago and was my daughter’s favourite song when she was 4. And dammit, if that song, with its message of climate change (and even aliens!!), isn’t so resonant at this very moment.
So Patti gets me thinking about what I want to be doing when I’m 77 (coincidentally, my magic number). Boy, do I ever want to be sharing messages on a big stage somehow, firing people up from frustration into action. A seed is planted in that moment.
I decided to look up this Bill Perkins guy because I have learned to listen to universal messages that seem to want to take me on meandering paths to new ideas. I landed on THIS podcast interview. TLDR nugget: What experiences belong in your present that you won’t be able to do in 20 years?
Mic drop. Everything came into crisp focus this past week since hearing that. At nearly 80 and 82, guess whose chances of being around in 20 years are pretty slim? At 16 and 18, guess who won’t be part of my day-to-day life in the same way at 36 and 38? BOOM!
What got me was when Perkins said akin to, “There will be a last time of bouncing your child on your knee. You won’t know when it will be, but someday it will just be gone.” Coincidentally, I had written this the previous day when my daughter turned 16.
“16 today. A mixture of pride, joy, love, and a hint of melancholy as we enter the twilight of this chapter of parenting. I know the gig never truly ends (just ask my mom), but as any parent of teens knows, this stage just hits different.
After being so entrenched in the care of another human being, we parents suddenly have to reimagine our identity, how we spend our time, and who we spend our time with. And there’s lots of beauty and freedom in that. But also little pangs of grief at all the beauty and innocence that’s passed.
As parents of littles, we get to be silly, playing games and singing songs… in effect reconnecting with our own inner child. We meet other adults navigating the same journey and build communities around our kids.
And then, one day, you wake up, and it’s just not that anymore. There’s less being and more doing; there are deadlines, big feelings and complicated relationship dynamics to unpack and work through. There are opinions and moods to contend with—the pain of seeing your child go from unself-conscious to overthinking.
But there are also laughs and insights and way less physical work. There are humans you made who are your favourite people in the world, and sometimes they ask for a snuggle, and you hold on like the moment may never come again.
Even with all the really hard parts (and we’ve had some doozies), I would choose it all over again.”
“The end is near,” says a lyric about a billboard in the Phoebe Bridgers song (my daughter’s favourite song at 16) that comes from the opposite end of the spectrum I’m on. Bridgers is also writing about change; she’s singing (to her dog) about her hometown, her childhood bedroom, a changing planetary landscape and a changing life — but from the perspective of her 20s.
And yet, I feel it, too. I know the end as I stand at the next big crossroads of life. Life is always about change, a truth you can know intellectually but only means something when you speak it in your soul with peace and acceptance. But 25, 50, 75 — these are markers of profound shifts.
At nearly 50, I’m witnessing the end of a life with kids in my home daily. Even if they stay due to economic reasons, they will no longer be children. I’m witnessing the sunset of the life my parents built, the changes in their abilities, and their resistance to what they are on the road to needing to let go of. I’m observing my physical youth and life-creating capacity dwindle to a candle whisp. And while I think I know the end, I’m standing here, fully aware of what I don’t know and all I cannot control, and simply bearing witness to the kind of change that comes once in a lifetime and tests your resilience. Both, and.
So yeah, the end (of this season of life, as Bill Perkins puts it) is near. It will be beautiful and heart-shattering and likely open me wide so that more life pours in. I don’t fear it like I used to. I’ve done enough “Five Remembrances” practice that I accept it’s just what may be coming. Endings are great teachers in life. They force us to live with intention and attention. And they can also be a bit sad, and that’s OK.
What they don’t tell you about being in the sandwich generation is that one day, you’ll be a piece of salami or prosciutto with no focaccia on either side. A falafel sans pita. And the anticipation of that is tricky. Preparing for loss on one hand while trying to be deeply present every moment with the other. But also, there’s the pregnant possibility of finally, truly, getting to build your own life to your specifications, and that’s thrilling. More to come on that when I post Part 1 next week. In the meantime, I’m so lucky to be here and to get this time with these folks. I’m so glad I woke up to that opinion. :)
Love this. Lots of food for thought as I drive my youngest to school this weekend.