It’s past midnight, and I haven’t slept yet, though I was in bed by 9 p.m. I’m penning what I’m thinking; it might not flow as I want, but you’ll get what I’m thinking about.
I’m here thinking about the future. I know I’m not scared of death… I might be lying because I’m only scared of dying young. Scared of leaving Skylar before she’s stable. You know what I’m scared of the most? Fear. I’m scared of letting fear control me. If fear controls me, I’m sure I’ll die as a loser. I’ll die without achieving anything worthwhile.
The fear isn’t just about dying. It’s about not living right. It’s about living many years trying to fix others and forgetting to fix myself. It’s about seeing my life flash by and realizing there are too many unfinished chapters – apologies I never said, friendships I never mended, dreams I kept postponing, talents I never nurtured. When I allow fear to control me, I’ll never invest in anything.
Let’s look at it this way: Investing in the stock market? Fear will tell me that I’ll lose money. Acquiring a PhD? Fear will tell me that it’s expensive, unachievable, and a lot of people are okay without it. Investing in real estate in the city? Fear will tell me that all those real estate companies are a scam. Investing in genuine friendship? Fear will tell me that people are bad. Looking for a promotion or a good government job? Fear will tell me that I know no one to help me “push” the application.
So many times, I imagine what it will be like when I’m sixty, by God’s grace, sitting in my living room. Will I be happy for how I lived? Will my grandchildren be proud of me? Will I leave behind a good name and inheritance? My joy is to fulfill Proverbs 13:22 (NIV), “A good person leaves an inheritance for their children’s children…”
Will I suffer from the many “what ifs”? What if I had taken that risk? What if I hadn’t given up so easily? What if I had chosen to stick to my plan A? You spend your younger years thinking you have all the time in the world. You intentionally hurt people, you take chances recklessly, you abandon your passion because “there’s still time.” Then suddenly, you look in the mirror and notice many years have passed, and time isn’t waiting for you. Wrinkles start to show, energy is depleted, your eyes carry deep stories that you take too much courage to tell the world. You find yourself wondering, “Is this it?”
I’ve seen people in my parents’ age group living like ghosts – not because they’re dead but because they stopped believing in change. They stopped believing people can create a different path and try life again. They never changed routines because they were afraid of failing. All they do is wake up, take tea, do the usual chores – farm, chama, church, community functions, then sit to watch, farm, chama, church, community functions, then sit to watch TV while saying, “How life used to be.” It’s amazing how the human spirit can easily surrender to routine.
I think the real tragedy is growing old without peace – without the peace of knowing you did your best with what you had, without forgiving your past, without forgiving yourself. I believe sunset years shouldn’t be spent on regrets. Of course, things might go wrong, wrong to a point that you can’t mend anything. You can just wake up and find that you can’t recognize yourself anymore. You lose close people that you never thought you could lose. Your paths suddenly lead to a dead end. But time will never stop for you to cry; it gives you something harder – the chance to soldier on.
But growing old has taught me that life isn’t perfect, and it doesn’t come with a manual either. It gives you everything raw and unfiltered, and you have to make something beautiful. But when you let fear creep in, it will remind you that time has run out. It will remind you that you’re too old to amend your mistakes. It will remind you that your mistakes are carved too deep in your story. You fight that fear by reminding yourself that it’s never too late. Life doesn’t stop when you make a mistake. It stops when you stop being afraid of starting over. Healing is learning how to live gently with your past.
One day, when I’m sixty and alive, by God’s grace, I’ll have stories to tell. They won’t all be happy or perfect, but they’ll be mine. And I’ll peacefully own every word. I’ll tell people how it didn’t go alright but I lived anyway.
And maybe that will be enough.