I was 20 years old when my mum turned 50. We lived in different countries and saw each other twice a year. But I still clearly remember the email she sent me on her birthday.
In her email, she spoke of not being who she thought she would be by 50 – it’s not my story to tell, but it was a lament to not having become all she expected to be. And her words have swirled around my mind each time I reach a milestone, or hit a wall in which I wonder when I will be ______ enough.
I think we expect to start feeling like a grown-up by a certain point; to reach an age or milestone that is it. But as I get older, and achieve (or fail to achieve) more, I am increasingly conscious that there is no it. There is no end goal – I won’t ever be everything that I want to be, or finish developping.
But I’m starting to believe that’s good news. Life without potential of more sounds like no life at all.
So I guess I have to accept the imperfect me that I am, and understand that despite the many manifestations of me that have been, there are many more to come.