Even at 30-something, you’ve got to start sometime


EXCUSE the butchered Jimmy Eat World lyric-led title, but I’ve not really thought about my age. Not for a long time. And I’m starting to realise that might be to my detriment. For a long time my stance on ageing has been something akin to ‘those who obssess over their years can add more misery and pressure to themselves‘.

But the inverse is also true.

Those who don’t appreciate their age, and the time they (may or may not) have can be guilty of no urgency to do anything of note. I suppose it’s not just about age, but belief, confidence and desire. Those are elements of action too, and I hope to cover my own fight with those at some point.

TL:DR, I have no lack of self-belief but it may be dusty.

Yet not optimising our finite time on this coil feels criminal. Moreso when faced by the tragic loss of life in proximity. Twice that has happened this year: two people I knew – not well, but knew…’knew of’ by association if you like are no longer here. It is terribly sad and shocking.

I am not young. Not now.

I am in my 30s still, one or two grey hairs and sure I feel fairly healthy but…I need to eat better, need to prioritise both activity and rest (I love running once I’m out the door, I savour good sleep as many in their 30s do). I’m also aware of a family inclination towards specific health concerns should I not be taking care of myself.

Essentially psychologically I’ve put myself at a fork, and it’s one I’m thankful my wonderful lady has helped me to see. At some point in my history I slowed down, self-preserved, went more in on myself, and told myself that was the antidote to stress. Pitched up at a rest-stop and thought little about venturing further.

Perhaps to counter the mental health struggles of my 20s. Perhaps to shield myself from the pain of failing that is essential in all life. It certainly wasn’t out of a lack of self-belief. Probably more fear if anything…but as I say, we can come to that at another time.

My last post, Do it anyway, is testament to how I’m trying to better myself. Moving from a pondering passivity, a pond or reservoir of life occasionally topped with new impetus, to the always flowing river and the journey of movement.

The hope in this forced metaphor, is arrival at an ocean of opportunity. But even if not, the journey towards something is the superior of letting it come. It may never. How does it even know you are looking? So movement it is, in all its potential awkwardness and failing, and improving and glorious progression through mistakes and victories alike.

The movement of newness.

The movement of action.

And of life.

Image credit: Jukan Tateisi, via Unsplash.com


Kevin Pocock

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