The Burden of Being
Three weeks ago I turned 40. The build-up was nothing short of a massive emotional and mental hemorrhage.
Who have I become?
The existential juggernaut.
This burden of being. This agony and ecstasy.
I heard someone refer to midlife crisis as a “dissatisfaction with life”. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I compare it to standing in a hallway. Doors line either side—some wide open, some locked tight, some unfamiliar and alluring. Currents flow in and out at varying strengths—there’s always motion, always an ebb and flow.
Liminal.
In some moments I’ve stood very still, afraid to move too far in any direction. In other moments I’ve spun tirelessly in circles, checking to make sure every door is still there, lingering a bit too long at some and oftentimes dizzily forgetting where I was coming from to begin with.
I have much to be grateful for. I grew up in America. I’ve enjoyed middle class perks inside the bubble of white privilege. I own a home. I have money in the bank. Aside from having my tonsils removed at an age I don’t even remember, I’ve never had any serious medical or health issues (knock on wood). I live in an air conditioned house that has an ice maker, anti-wrinkle cream, and Alexa. I have an active Skymiles account. I regularly enjoy massage therapy. I had parents that paid for braces, so my teeth are straight. My closet is full of beautiful clothes (and other forgotten/neglected things) I hardly ever touch. I pop into stylish little neighborhood wine bars when I feel so inclined and I giggle with my girlfriends about all our first-world problems. I want for very little, you see. And yet, on the cusp of 40, I yearn.
My greatest personal weakness is the uncanny ability to give people what exactly what they want. Call it being of service, call it people pleasing. I’ve spent many of these first 40 years asking other people for permission to be who I want to be. I’ve stood at attention, waiting on somebody to tell me where to sit, when to speak, how to act, what to prove. That’s been an exhausting experience. Pure with intention, to be sure, but striving to make other people happy and comfortable, I’m finding, is not a guaranteed pathway to happiness.
If that “dissatisfaction with life” associated with midlife malaise has anything to do with my current identity crisis, then maybe I can support it. Being for the sake of being for someone else is not what we’re put on this earth to achieve. To simply be…could it really be that simple?
