Recently, I heard an interview with the esteemed Belgian psychotherapist, Esther Perel, in which she discussed the idea of happiness, and the trouble with our interpretation of the word. She pointed out that for a very long period of human history, happiness was something promised only in the after-life. People muddled through their earthly days, never expecting a bed of roses.
I don’t mean to romanticize this, but I bet toxic positivity was not a thing, and I wonder if there was less judgement surrounding the experience of unpleasant emotional states. Which, let’s face it, happen whether we like it or not. Being a person is a messy business, after all
Then came the dawn of a new era with an unlikely promise: you can achieve happiness in the here and now!
This moved the goal post, and with time, our thinking morphed yet again. In another unexpected turn, happiness became mandated.
And now, here we are today, living with this messaging: If you’re not happy, something must be wrong with you.
It’s gone from:
Happiness is unachievable during your lifetime, to —
You can achieve it here on Earth, to —
If you haven’t achieved it yet, you’re doing it wrong.
I’m paraphrasing all of this of course, but I think I understood what Esther was driving at. We have developed a lot of unrealistic expectations, and really wrapped ourselves around the axle where happiness is concerned.
So while I say to you, “Happy New Year,” I’d like to add a footnote about what I really mean by “happy.” I’d like to specify what I hope the coming year brings to you, me, and all of us.
May happiness mean finding contentment and satisfaction with what we already have, and who we already are. May we accept life’s terms, respect Nature’s boundaries, and love ourselves, imperfections and all, starting right this very minute. May we recognize our shared humanity. May we find more fulfillment through non-material “things,” than shopping carts loaded with cheap, plastic crap. May our hearts overflow with love and compassion, toward ourselves and our fellow humans.
I think this might get us a bit closer to achieving happiness, in the truest sense of the word. I hope so.
As far as celebrations of the holiday go, personally, I crawled into bed at 10 o’clock last night with our dogs. My husband is away on a six day work trip, so we wished each other well by phone, and I called it a night. The dogs trembled beneath the covers, wondering what kind of end times we were facing under duress of explosions from all manner of fireworks and general mayhem going on in the neighborhood.
“Don’t worry, my loves, it’s only 2023 that’s ending,” I told them, “and good riddance.”
Honestly, I couldn’t wait to toss this last year onto the compost heap. It’s been particularly tough, and I’m ready for a new one. So, I left the partying up to the younger-at-heart, put my earplugs in, and went to sleep.
It has often been said I am older than my years. “You’re like a little adult,” I was told many times as a child. And it was true, I’m afraid. Too much responsibility has been resting on my shoulders since they were quite small, leaving my bones to buckle under the load.
People with children the same age as mine are typically 10 to 15 years older, and since, oftentimes when raising kids, one makes adult friendships through their children’s activities, I have always had friends much older than me. Next month I will turn 49, and this is still as true as ever. Many of my closest friends are in their 60s and 70s. It has always been this way.
I kind of missed the train when it came to childhood. I could see it through the window, and watched other people having it as it rolled by. The same was true in my twenties, when people my same age were partying, taking trips to Europe, getting educations, engaging in interesting pastimes, and generally feeling free to explore life and themselves.
Instead, I changed diapers, worked two or three jobs, nursed babies, read bedtime stories, borrowed from Peter to pay Paul, and cashed in my food stamps for the most wholesome ingredients I could find to feed my family. I washed a helluvalot of laundry, waited tables, cleaned houses, took care of bed-bound elders and disabled adults, and began studying midwifery. And for the record, I’m not whining about it, or sorry it happened that way. On the contrary! I value all the wisdom and inner strength I carry because of my life experiences. I’m just saying: I’ve felt old since I was young. I was born with my bootstraps in my hand.
My thirties came on with a lot of brutal awakenings to the realities of raising teenagers, and I’m afraid to say, entanglements in some sordid romances. My heart wound up pretty severely broken, and existentially disappointed by “love” relationships. By my later thirties, after a spell of self-imposed isolation from dating, I began to embody emotional self-reliance. Nothing else had worked up til that point, so this was only discovered by exclusion.
As a 4 was installed onto the front end of my age, I found that it came with a deep and welcome shift toward more self-acceptance. My elders have said that each decade is better than the last, and so far, I would have to agree.
As I stare down 50, I realize this next era of my life is all about deciding what kind of older woman I want to be, and turning the ship in that direction. And it looks like I won’t have long to wait; the ground is rising up to meet me.
In the last few months, I have been on an odyssey with my health. I’m working on another piece of writing that will contain more of an update about that, for those of you who are following along (thank you for caring!).
The short story is this: I’ve been collecting new diagnoses left and right lately. One of these is an autoimmune condition — my second one — called Ankylosing Spondylitis (AS). I’ve been wrapping my head around what this means, and doing my research. One thing I’ve stumbled onto is that that many people with AS struggle with bone density issues. Thinking it might be a good idea to undergo a scan, and get a bead on my “baseline,” I requested a referral from my doctor. I never thought it would come back with results that say I already have osteoperosis, but that’s what happened.
My doctor was very perplexed by the findings.
“I’ve never seen this result in someone your age,” she said. “Apparently your bones are older than the rest of your body.”
So there you have it, on good authority. My old soul has old bones, and they are dissolving.
Why has this happened? My doctor agrees that it’s probably because, in my youth, I didn’t have good nutrition, had food security issues, was a street kid, produced and nursed two children in an undernourished state, all the while with undiagnosed Celiac disease. Ankylosing Spondylitis is known to cause osteoporosis, and since it took no less than 25 painful years of seeking that diagnosis to obtain it, and 41 years to learn I had Celiac, (which also carries a higher risk of bone loss), no one thought to screen me for this.
Aging can be a bitch, ask anyone old. As a woman’s body hangs it up, as far as the reproductive years go, she notices eyes start passing right over her that used to linger. The 20-somethings don’t even see her amidst the crowd. She becomes invisible as what was once perky and vibrant gravitates, inevitably earthward. But as our temples fill in with silver and the crow’s feet deepen, something else unexpected can happen — we can find we don’t care. Invisibility is freedom. And we’d rather have the wisdom.
People used to act surprised when I’d tell them how old my kids are.
“What? No way! You’re kidding me!” They were genuinely shocked. “How is that even possible? Were you 12 when you had them?”
Now they just smile and say, “Oh.”
I could be offended by this, but I’m not. I think it’s funny. It’s all part of the turning of the wheel of life. And speaking of that…
At the beginning of a new year, I like to choose a word to summarize what I will be focusing on. In 2023, the word was LISTEN. This year, I am choosing RESPOND.
“Respond” is the opposite of “react,” which has been a go-to, default setting in my oft-defective operating system. Reactivity looks like a lot of fight and flight and a weird kind of numbness that makes me feel like I’m looking at the world through plexiglass. This has not been a beneficial or functional mode to be in.
One of the traits of old-womanhood that I would like to embody is calmness. I would like to treat my nervous system to a one-way ticket to the parasympathetic state.
So, rather than living from one knee-jerk reaction to the next, making survival mode an olympic sport, or perfecting my imitation of an ostrich by ignoring important signals going off inside of me, I would like to take responsible action, if “responsible” means able to respond.
Yes, I have known about responsibility since too young an age, but always in the context of carrying burdens, and being accountable to external things and people outside of myself, while needs of my own have often gone unmet.
Heath and healing, which I deeply need just now, and happiness, as we are defining it here, depend on an ability to listen to the calls coming from within. I think I did a pretty good job of that last year, using LISTEN as my keyword and guide. I don’t necessarily love what I found when I leaned in to hear it, but, ultimately, I am always glad to know the truth.
As we turn the page on the calendar, and I plunge into new depths of middle age, I am ready to RESPOND. I am ready to take responsibility, and embrace this less alluring aspect of “self care.” Not the bubble bath-and-candles kind. Rather, the kind that’s brave enough to ask: What do I need in order to truly grow? What would nourish my body, mind and soul? The kind that’s willing to believe the answers being whispered, sometimes in a teeny, tiny voice, coming from deep within, and is committed to responding.
Happy New Year, Everyone. Thank you for reading my crazy stories, being my treasured friends, and coming along for the ride.
Much love to all of you!
That bubbles and candles bit brought to mind that old "Calgon take me away!" commercial. Even then, happiness was just a fancy bath away... ah, capitalism, cleverly monetizing soap by shaming us into thinking we need just a few bubbles to suddenly "be happy." And what do we see on FB and other platforms? An avalanche of wonderful moments, nothing else. success success success!
And what do we have to share? heartache.
lovely new work, and I dare say, very grown up.
Deepest gratitude to you for somehow finding me. I’ve read your last two pieces and feel connected, kinship. Can’t wait to read more of your work/life. I am older and poor. I’m so sorry I can’t give you money. I do promise my rapt attention.