The Life I Planned Isn't the Life I'm Living

There’s a version of my life I assumed I’d be living by now.

I don’t know that I ever sat down and consciously planned it. But it was there.

By my 50s, I’d be settled.

My career would make sense. My finances would be in good shape. I’d know where I belonged. The big questions would have answers.

I certainly wouldn’t still be wondering what I wanted to do with my life.

And yet, here I am.

I’m 52, living with and caring for my mother, reconsidering what I want from work, rebuilding parts of my financial life, and trying to figure out what I want the next couple of decades to look like.

This is not the life I pictured.

And for a while, I think I treated that like a problem I needed to fix.

The imaginary finish line

We spend so much of our younger lives moving toward things.

Finish school.

Build a career.

Make more money.

Find your people.

Buy the house.

Become established.

There’s always another milestone somewhere ahead of you.

And underneath all of it is this strange assumption that eventually you’ll arrive.

Your life will make sense.

You'll know who you are and what you're doing.

I don't know exactly when I realized there wasn't going to be an arrival.

Maybe that's part of getting older.

You start noticing how many things you were certain about that turned out not to be certain at all.

Careers change.

Relationships change.

Parents age.

People die.

Money comes and goes.

Bodies change.

Plans that once seemed incredibly important stop mattering.

And sometimes things you never thought much about become the center of your world.

Life keeps moving the furniture around.

I kept thinking I needed a plan

I'm very good at plans.

Give me a problem and I'll make a spreadsheet. I'll organize it. Research it. Create a system. Figure out the next six steps.

That works surprisingly well for a lot of things.

It does not work particularly well for an entire life.

I've spent a lot of time thinking I should know what comes next.

What should I do for work?

How much money do I need?

Where will I live?

What am I building toward?

What do I want my life to look like five years from now?

All reasonable questions.

But lately I've started wondering if I'm asking them too soon.

Because there's another question underneath all of them.

What do I want to do with the life I have now?

Not the life I thought I'd have.

Not the life I might have someday when circumstances change.

This one.

That's harder than it sounds

Because the answer isn't necessarily dramatic.

I don't have a secret dream of selling everything and moving to Italy.

I don't want to reinvent myself.

I'm not interested in becoming unrecognizable in six months.

Actually, I think I'm becoming more interested in the opposite.

I want to recognize myself.

I want work that uses what I'm good at without consuming my life.

I want to feel financially secure again.

I want to take care of my mother without completely disappearing into being a caregiver.

I want a home that feels good to live in.

I want to be strong and healthy enough to keep doing things for a very long time.

I want people I love around me.

I want things on the calendar I'm looking forward to.

I want ordinary Tuesdays that I actually enjoy.

None of that makes for a particularly impressive five-year plan.

But maybe that's the point.

Maybe a good life doesn't need to look impressive

This is one of the things I'm starting to question most.

For a long time, I thought progress needed to be visible.

A better job.

More money.

A bigger accomplishment.

Something you could point to and say, See? I'm moving forward.

Now I think progress might look completely different.

Getting your finances under control.

Making the doctor's appointment.

Planting something and watching it grow.

Getting stronger.

Learning how to enjoy your own company.

Changing your mind about something you thought you wanted.

Creating a home you don't constantly want to escape from.

Finding work that fits your life instead of building your entire life around work.

Saying no without spending three days feeling guilty about it.

Maybe those things count too.

Maybe they count more than I realized.

I'm not starting over from zero

That's another phrase I've been thinking about.

Starting over.

It sounds like everything that came before somehow disappeared.

But at 52, I'm not starting with nothing.

I'm starting with everything I've learned.

I've built things. Lost things. Made money. Made mistakes with money. Had jobs I loved and jobs I couldn't wait to leave. I've taken care of people. I've grieved people. I've moved away and come home. I've been certain about things I've later changed my mind about.

I know myself better than I did at 25.

Maybe not completely.

But better.

And perhaps that's the advantage of building a life at this age.

You're not working with a blank page.

You're working with a lot of information.

So this is where I am

Somewhere in the middle.

Not finished with the life that came before.

Not entirely sure what the next one looks like.

Taking care of what needs taking care of while also trying not to forget that my life is happening too.

And I suspect I'm not the only woman standing in this particular place.

Maybe your circumstances look nothing like mine.

Maybe you're dealing with a divorce.

A career that doesn't fit anymore.

Kids leaving home.

A parent who suddenly needs you.

A financial setback.

A loss.

A move.

Or maybe nothing dramatic happened at all.

Maybe you simply woke up one day and realized the life you've been living doesn't quite fit the person you've become.

So you start asking questions.

What matters to me now?

What am I done with?

What do I want more of?

What could the next chapter look like if I stopped requiring it to resemble the last one?

I don't have those answers yet.

That's why I'm writing.

Letter from Jen isn't about having the next chapter figured out.

It's about paying attention while we figure it out.

To work and money.

To caregiving and family.

To grief and change.

To home and health.

To the ordinary things that make a life feel like your own.

And to that question I keep coming back to:

What do I want to do with the life I have now?

I don't know yet.

But for the first time in a while, I'm less worried about having the answer.

I'm interested in finding out.