47

How did I wind up here, anyway?

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Today is my 47th birthday. I say this not because I’m soliciting birthday greetings — I’ve got hundreds of those on Facebook to reply to already — but because as we age, birthdays become less about the parties and the cake, and much more about opportunities to reflect on where we are, and also where we’ve been.

I never expected to go through a mid-life crisis. Things were far from perfect, but I thought I was doing pretty well. I had finally made it, and thought I had nothing left to prove. I grew up on the almost-poor end of middle class, but here I was, living in a nice house that was actually big enough for our family, in a gated community (that I owned, rather than rented). I had beautiful children, cool stuff, good food, and a Jeep that I’d take off-roading like I’d always wanted since I was a kid. Our bills were getting paid on time, and I had attained a level of notoriety and success that felt like the culmination of a lifetime of hard work and dedication.

It was 2020, and by that point, I had built something I felt I could be truly proud of. I was not embarrassed to tell people what I did and who I was. I got to call myself a professional writer, like I’d always dreamed. My parents had come for Christmas the previous year, and I’d gone all out to show them the sights, and all I’d accomplished, because I’d spent my life feeling like I had to do something to earn their respect. I finally felt that I had nothing left to prove.

But the truth is, I was still deeply unhappy. Moreso than I’d ever been.

It’s cliche, I know, but it’s true. So is what I’m about to say next.