The Possibilities are Finite

A letter reflecting on my 44th trip around the sun

Dear friends,

Each year on my birthday, I write a letter reflecting on this spin around the sun. This is a personal letter, and I hope you receive it in the spirit of love, vulnerability, and curiosity with which it is offered.

Today I am 44. I feel strong, engaged, and loved. I feel lucky. I feel young. This year was riddled with hard personal losses, but also surprising adventures, connected joy, and abundant passion. I baked more pies and climbed more trees this year than any other in my life. I am blessed right now with rich community, satisfying and flexible work, and good health.

So what do I want to do with all of this goodness and possibility? Where do I want to take it?

I will never stop being someone who dreams big about the future. But today I’m not making plans. Instead, I’m thinking about the opposite. Many doors feel open to me. Given my limited time on this planet, where do I focus my energy? What do I choose to stop doing? How do I go about closing doors with grace?

Sometimes, the path to closure is clear. I spent hours yesterday climbing the thorny branches of my health care provider’s phone tree, trying to schedule a tubal sterilization. It’s a practical choice, and also, acknowledgement of a long-shut door. I do not intend to have any more children. I’ve felt that way for at least ten years (my daughter turns 12 next month), and I don’t feel confused or fraught about pursuing this surgery. It feels good to be able to so conclusively say: this phase of my life has ended.

But in other areas of my life, saloon doors still swing enticingly. I’ve been out of a “normal” job for five years, and I am thrilled that novel writing is now my sole occupation. It’s challenging, but it’s not the nonprofit pressure cooker I sweated in for the twenty years prior. I write in sprints—I push hard for 2-6 weeks to finish a draft or execute a revision, and then I send it off, pass the baton, and get on with life until it’s time for the next push. When I’m not working, I’m reading, playing beach volleyball, doing handstands, cooking vegetarian meals, helping friends, loving family. I relish this life and I feel incredibly grateful my writing can support it.

And yet. Is the door to nonprofit work permanently closed? Am I done collaborating with community organizations and activists full-time? Probably. Maybe. For now. All I know is this: if I had the option to call my doctor and schedule a “nonprofit ligation,” I would not do so. I don’t want to cut off the possibility that at some point in the future, I might want a version of that life again.

One of the weird things about getting older is that at some point, you stop imagining the possibilities are infinite. I’m 44, and I am teetering on this realization now. I wholeheartedly believe many amazing things are ahead of me. But I’m also aware there are some experiences I will never have again. Some are huge and life-altering. I will never have the chance to hug my dad again, or solve a crossword with my stepfather. Some are small. I suspect I will never design a museum exhibition, visit Romania, nor play competitive ultimate frisbee in the future. Even as I type these things, though, I’m unsure. Who’s to say I’ll never again lead a participatory design workshop or take a trip with my cousins? I love the incredible variety of life, and while that motivates me to continue pursuing novel experiences, I hate imagining that some spices I’ve sampled might not have the potential to bloom into major flavors of the future.

I’m curious how you think about this for yourself. Do you have ways you intentionally close doors to experiences you don’t intend to have again? Do you do so with joy or with regret? When you walk away from that job, house, relationship, or hobby, what rituals do you perform? What do you tell yourself?

I want to say hello and goodbye to each year with grace. I figure the healthiest, most joyful way to move forward is to keep exploring in full knowledge that I may often do something for the last time, or the only time. I can keep opening wild new doors, but the time I spend behind each of them is finite. So I want to get a bit more intentional, or at least comfortable, with the fact that some doors will close, whether I want them to or not. There are things I do at 44 that I won’t do when I’m 64, or even 45. I want to find ways to honor that. If you have anything you’d like to share about how you do so, I’m all ears.

With love,

Nina

Photo taken by a new friend in an old tree. I suspect I’ll keep making friends and climbing trees for many years to come.