Relentlessly prune nonsense, don’t ever wait to do the things that matter, and savor the time you have. That’s what you do when life is short.

Paul Graham

I will admit I’ve ALWAYS had this “life is short, cram it all in NOW!’ mentality, even as far back as childhood. I’m convinced, in fact, that it’s part of my dysfunctional relationship with sleep—there was too much DAY to still get in, too much time left in the movie we were watching, too much going on in the sky outside my window, too many of my friends still awake, too much of my book left to read…

There as just SO. MUCH.

And I was missing it.

I’m pretty sure whoever invented the acronym FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—knew me in high school and college.

Because I had a TEXTBOOK CASE.

Some of that, in part, was because I HATED being left out—I think because, subconsciously, being left out felt a LOT like rejection or abandonment.

And there was just cause for this—I remember the first time I found out my group of friends had all gotten together at one of the guy’s houses and they had been explicitly told not to invite me or to let me know about it. (Yet another male who considered me to be TOO MUCH because I had the nerve to 1. have a emotions and a strong personality and 2. call him out when he was a jerk.)

But what I remember even more was the second revelation:

the understanding that none of the rest of my friends even stood up for me.

Not a one.

This, unfortunately, was a pattern that continued with several of the guys I went to high school with for over two decades.

(A pattern I should have pruned from my life MUCH SOONER.)

The second reason I hated missing out was because THERE WAS SO MUCH LIFE TO BE LIVED AND I WANTED TO LIVE THE HECK OUT OF IT.

I wanted to see magnificent places. I wanted to have meaningful conversations. I wanted to experience new things. I wanted to encounter extraordinary beauty. I wanted to laugh hard and sing loud and think deeply and play all out and love with complete and total abandon.

But there just wasn’t the time and resources to do it all—so I lived my young adulthood and early parenting years doing all that I COULD. Chasing the adventures within our grasp. Savoring the moments we were able to make. Pausing to take in the sunset. To hold the baby longer. To linger in the waves. To let the fire totally die out. To remain at the dinner table longer than my restless body could stand. To ask the deep questions and tell the stupid jokes and teach my kids to harmonize and to recognize what really matters.

Besides,

I told myself,

I’d have plenty more time for the bigger adventures when the kids were older and we had more resources.

Then Keira got sick in my late 30s.

And I got sick in my mid-40s.

And suddenly pruning crap from my life and making the most of each and every moment we had the energy to make took on a whole new meaning, because those bigger adventures, though never truly guaranteed, were now much, much less likely.

And, tbh, I grieved that.

Hard.

But I’m slowly but surely learning to live the life I’ve been given in whatever form that takes from day to day.

Now, I’m weeks from turning 50.

And I feel like I’m beginning to really GET IT.

(Largely because I’ve had NO CHOICE.)

(But GETTING IT nonetheless.)

I am finally coming to grips with the reality that there is only so much time and energy and resources and motivation and physical ability to go around.

And time is of the essence.

So I MUST prune relentlessly—I’ve been forced (which seems like a strong word but really isn’t)—to take the clippers and do what I’ve never been willing to do in my own garden: cut it ALL back, farther than ever before.

And only preserve that which bears fruit.

And, truthfully, my garden looks much the same, just a bit smaller.

Because I’m still the same 8 year old and 19 year old and 25 year old and 32 year old and 43 year old who wanted to see and hear and engage and experience with the best of what this world has to offer.

That will likely never change.

But I look at my garden differently these days—

And I see glimpses of “best” where I never saw them before.

And when I do,

I stop,

and I soak it all in—

and then I wring it all out into my spirit,

quenching its thirst for life

with the dew of the present moment.

adventure aging beauty chronic fatigue chronic illness chronic pain courage fomo meaning pruning purpose rejection relationships turning fifty