It’s a constellation of variables that have brought me to existing in fall 2024 as a person who feels pretty contented most of the time. It’s the anti-depressant, the bike riding and swimming, the good health of my little family, the financial security, and the flowering of possibilities here in my second adolescence, my midlife.
It’s the feeling of admitting to myself and the world who I am. It’s the jettisoning of outdated ideas from my life. (Whose idea was it to try to become the Executive Director of such and such or the Policy Director of Blah Blah, anyway?) I know what I’m good at and what I like to do. I know now I’ll never be Oprah, and I also know that in order to have a positive impact on people, I don’t have to be Oprah.
And still, all around, on a daily basis, there is the stomach churning acknowledgement of the cruelties and devastation of the outside world. In Toronto, homelessness is always right there, especially since the height of the pandemic. Every morning, I make a point of reading the news of what’s happening in Gaza, Israel, the West Bank, and Lebanon. (I will write about this soon.) Almost every day, the climate emergency makes itself obvious to us.
I know my happiness in this phase of my life is also about the complete accident of having been born white and middle-class in Canada. The foundation of my financial security is my marriage. My health and non-disabled status can be taken away from me in an instant.
There is so much goodness to be grateful for and so much badness that needs to be addressed. I’ve started praying at bedtime in the past few weeks, as an acknowledgement of both.
I am happy and I am also still so goddamn sad for the world.