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Remember being a kid? You're pretty sure you're invincible. You fall off your bike, scrape a knee, and you're back up, ready for more. Death? That's something that happens to old people in movies, not you. Teenage years? Even with all the angst and drama, there's still this underlying feeling that life stretches out forever. You're practically immortal, right?
Then you hit your early twenties. Suddenly, doing stupid stuff with your friends seems like a great idea. Consequences? Future you can worry about that. You're still young, still got all the time in the world.
Then your thirties roll around. You start noticing little things. That all-nighter hits way harder. You pull a muscle reaching for something on the top shelf. Random aches and pains become your new normal. The "fun" of pushing your limits starts to feel… less fun. You realize that maybe, just maybe, this whole "living forever" thing might have been a bit of an exaggeration.
And then… well, for me, it was 42 (give or take a few months, who's counting?). First stroke. Suddenly, that whole "immortal" bubble bursts. Big time. You're faced with the very real, very scary fact that you're mortal. You could actually… die. It's a lot to process, trust me.
You start thinking, "Okay, gotta change things! Gotta be healthier!" But here's the kicker: you can't really change who you are overnight. The person you are has years of habits and preferences baked in. You want to change, maybe even desperately, but how much of yourself are you willing or even able to change?
Take me, for example. Everyone says, "Eat your veggies! Be healthy!" Sounds great in theory. But with my medications? Turns out, large doses of some perfectly innocent vegetables can actually mess with things. So, suddenly, that simple advice gets complicated.
And exercise? "Go for a run! Get your heart pumping!" I wish. Thanks to some lovely health issues, running is pretty much a no-go. So, you adapt. You walk. You get out in nature. You find joy in taking pictures. It's not the same, but it's something.
Then life throws another curveball. Second stroke. Then a TIA, a mini-stroke that stole my vision. You start thinking, "Okay, universe, what's next on the menu?" It forces you to confront the fact that this time you have, this life you're living right now, is all you've got.
And you know what? You experience it. Even with the disabilities, even with the challenges. Maybe your "seeing all the colors" version of life has changed, but you're still living. That's the key. You're still here, experiencing what life throws your way.
It's a far cry from thinking you'd live forever, that's for sure. But maybe, just maybe, realizing you won't makes you appreciate the time you do have a little bit more. Just a thought.
