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The Middle

 The folly of youth to the wisdom of old age.

Passion to practicality.

Erratic speed to steady progress.

Tortured love to deep bonds.

Anger to acceptance.

Somewhere in between lies the resilience of middle age.

(I hope the early stage of middle age, but as I count the grey hairs in my mirror, I know this battle could go either way).

I play pickleball with my team, try to keep up with their youth, the energy. Does it make me feel younger or just old?

I can’t drink like a fish anymore, my body knows it even though my mind may forget it sometimes, especially post 4 drinks. Routines now not only excite me; they are like the best friend that my body needs to feel its mediocre best.  

Back pains creep up if I skip more than 3 days of the gym. Being a woman is a cruel fight against a “ticking clock” of what society thinks I must have achieved by now.

But oh, the resilience of middle age gets me through!

I may not be wise yet, but I am wise enough to know that if I falter, this too shall pass.

I have not lost all my passion, but I know that it won’t go down exactly the way I imagined.

I am not on a meteoric rise to success, yet I am celebrating every win.

I don’t know if there is a one true love for me, but I hope that it will be the kind that feels like a warm embrace on a cold evening.

There is still a lot of anger at the unfairness and cruelty of the world, yet there is acceptance that small kindnesses carry so much weight they might tip the balance every now and again.

The resilience of middle age is beautiful. I am grateful for every shot returned, all the hair that is still deeply black, the vibrancy of my body and hopefulness of my soul. The sharpness of my mind and the restlessness that urges me to try to be better.

 

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