Who's Afraid of a Midlife Crash?

This past month, I turned forty-seven. One hairstylist informed me that your body starts to fall apart during this infamous decade. Some people indulge in various forms of a midlife crisis. The teenage sons of one acquaintance decorated their front lawn with black balloons when she reached the Big 4-0.

Maybe there's a reason for mourning middle age. Yes, I need reading glasses. My dedication to step aerobics, running and uphill power walks resulted in achilles bursitis. The doctor said no more of that kind of exercise until until my aching heels heal. That was four months ago. I finally sneaked into JC Penney and bought a budget version of Spanx.

Still, I wouldn't trade middle-age angst for adolescence. My journal provides ample reasons for making peace with my current stage of life. At fourteen, I bemoaned the fact that I couldn't invite a gaggle of popular girls to celebrate my birthday. It just wasn't done. Unlike my attractive sister and studentbody-president brothers, I merely orbited the small-town cliques that were well-established in kindergarten. Sure, kids respected me for being artistic and smart. I edited the school newspaper, served as Junior class president and got an award for being Most Dependable Girl. These minor triumphs juxtaposed with emotional struggles that surpassed typical teenage insecurity.

Twenty years later, I turned to my journals in an effort to face the truth of my depression. This was exacerbated by a stressful pregnancy and the birth of our last child. The numbness, self-loathing and mental fog that had reached critical levels were articulated in meticulous penmanship from my past. It was almost exhausting to read how I busied myself with schoolwork, writing and extracurricular activities. Yet I had found plenty of ways to translate perfectionism to my present life as a stay-at-home mom. It was a twisted way of avoiding the tsunami of pain that eventually swept away all pretense and left me gasping for breath.

Since then I've confronted hard realities, accepting the fact that dealing with them is a lifelong quest. Some problems have no easy answers and I'm far from perfect. Yet my direction is true. I'm less inclined to judge, realizing that everyone carries unseen burdens. After years of losing the desire and energy to write, the process is a struggle but I'm trying to achieve more honesty and compassion in poetry and fiction. Most important, I no longer view life or raising a family as an Olympic competition. Success has many definitions and there's room in God's heart for all.

Edging closer to fifty, I feel the interplay of paradox. The delicate balance of confidence and humility is more apparent now; I'm learning to face difficulties that once seemed beyond my strength yet I'm more aware of my need for God's inspiration. I feel more vulnerable to tragedy and loss but I also feel a greater desire to love and to share.

I'll take these hard-won triumphs over a trim waist any day of the week.