Grace, Grit & Sarcasm

First, I owe you an apology. I’ve been away for a while and because of that this post is a little long.

Life got busy. Work got busy. School got busy. And somewhere between all the things I had to do and all the things I wanted to do, writing got pushed to the side.

But if I’m really going to write a blog about life after 50—the good, the bad, the ridiculous, and the things we don’t always say out loud—I suppose I have to be willing to talk about this part too.

I have a good life.

Actually, I have a really good life.

I have four daughters I am incredibly proud of and grandchildren I adore. I bought my own home at 52, complete with a corner lot that apparently requires me to own landscaping equipment I never wanted and a snowblower roughly the size of a small Buick.

I went back to school at 53. I earned two associate degrees, I’m finishing my bachelor’s degree, and apparently I haven’t tortured myself enough because I’m planning to start a master’s degree next.

I have a career I’m proud of. I lead people, mentor people, solve problems, and get to watch people I’ve helped develop grow in their own careers. I have people who count on me, people who respect me, and people who know that when something needs to get done, Deb will probably figure it out.

I have a home. A family. A career. An education I once wasn’t sure I’d ever have.

I’ve done things in my 50s that the 45-year-old version of me never would have believed.

And sometimes, I’m still sad.

That’s a hard sentence to write because it almost feels ungrateful.

How can I possibly be lonely when I have people who love me?

How can I be sad when I have accomplished so much?

What exactly do I have to complain about?

The answer is: not much.

But that’s the thing I’m learning.

Sadness doesn’t require a bad life.

You can be grateful and lonely at the same time.

You can be proud of the life you’ve built and still wish there were someone sitting beside you on the couch.

You can love watching your adult children build lives of their own and still miss the years when you were at the center of their world.

You can understand that friendships change, people move on, coworkers take other jobs, and everyone has their own lives—and still feel the loss when someone who was part of your everyday life suddenly isn’t anymore.

You can be independent without always wanting to be alone.

And maybe that’s the part I’ve struggled with the most.

I’ve spent a lot of years becoming the person who can handle things.

At work, I’m the manager. I’m the problem solver. I’m the mentor. I’m the cheerleader. I’m the person people come to when they need advice, encouragement, an answer, or sometimes just someone to listen.

At home, I’m the woman who bought the house by herself and learned how to use the ridiculously large snowblower.

At school, I’m the fifty-something woman saying, “Sure, let’s get another degree!”

I’ve become very good at being needed.

But being needed and being known aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Sometimes I wonder how many people know the woman underneath all that competence.

The one who gets lonely.

The one who would like someone to ask how she is doing—and actually want the long answer.

The one who doesn’t always want to be the strong one, the funny one, or the person who figures it out.

The one who would still love to have someone say, “There’s a flea market two hours away. Let’s go,” and spend the day wandering around looking at things neither of us needs.

I don’t think wanting that makes my life less fulfilling.

And I don’t think feeling sad sometimes means I’ve failed to appreciate everything I have.

Maybe one of the lessons of getting older is realizing that two things can be true at once.

I love my life.

And there are pieces missing.

I can be incredibly proud of the woman I’ve become and still want someone to really see her.

I can be grateful for my independence and occasionally be tired of doing everything independently.

I can celebrate my children having lives of their own while sometimes wishing I could borrow a little more of their time.

I can encourage everyone around me and still have days when I need some encouragement myself.

And I can be happy without being happy every single day.

Maybe that’s what a real great life looks like.

Not constant happiness.

Not some Instagram-worthy existence where we’re drinking coffee on the porch every morning, practicing gratitude, and feeling completely fulfilled while the sun rises beautifully behind us.

Sometimes a great life looks like sitting in the house you worked hard to buy, surrounded by evidence of everything you’ve accomplished…

and feeling a little lonely anyway.

Then getting up the next morning and continuing to live it.

I’m trying to stop treating sadness like proof that something is wrong with my life.

Sometimes sadness is simply sadness.

It visits.

I feel it.

Maybe I cry a little.

And then eventually I laugh again, something ridiculous happens, someone I love calls, one of my dogs does something stupid, or I remember that I have homework due and apparently don’t have time for an existential crisis because there’s a discussion post waiting for me.

Such is the glamorous life of a woman over 50.

So if you have a good life and you’re still sad sometimes, I’m beginning to think that’s okay.

We don’t have to choose between gratitude and sadness.

There’s room for both.

There’s room for joy, loneliness, pride, disappointment, laughter, grief, excitement, and the occasional desire to hide under a blanket and ignore everyone.

Maybe grace is learning to make room for all of it.

Maybe grit is getting back up.

And sarcasm?

Well…

That’s how some of us survive the whole damn thing.