Remember all those things you were going to do by the time your were 20? 30? 40?

Remember how once you did those things, life would finally be better? More interesting? More settled?

I do. I remember all the dreams and all the milestones missed. All the things that I was supposed to do and be. And now I’m left with just me.

So what happens now? Do we keep chasing the same seemingly unattainable dreams? Will we ever really write the book? Take the trip? Meet the person? And if we do, will be it the way we envisioned? Or will it be just a little less, because it didn’t happen in time?

For me, some of the goals could still be reached. For instance, I could write a book. But was the goal the writing of the book? Or was the goal the writing of the book accompanied by all the extras I imagined would go along with being a published author? And would that be the same for me now in middle age? If I’m being honest, the answer is probably no. Because I wanted to be a published author, but I also wanted to have a pretty author photo and get dressed up and attend dinners and banquets when I was still able to turn a head or two (vain but true–I’m not here to lie). I wanted to go to a high school reunion with a chip on my shoulder and a pride in what I had accomplished. At the core, I wanted to be different…special…noteworthy. Don’t we all?

But if everyone is special, then no one is special. And I’m not any of those things I envisioned, nor will I probably ever be. I’m hoping that there will be a kind of freedom in this knowledge. A freedom from feeling that I’m not good enough, not hard-working enough, not anything enough. I’m hoping that I can stop thinking about all the things I should be doing, so I’m able to enjoy the things I am doing.

So, right now I’m going to enjoy this old episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I’ll ignore the fact that I’m avoiding tasks with the same fluffy distraction as 20 years ago. Maybe I should just blame Shonda Rhimes for my lack of production and progress. Come to think of it, Bridgerton has also eaten into my productivity…and there’s a new season coming soon, so doubtful I’ll be writing the Great American Novel any time soon.

Maybe I’m not the problem, after all.