I’m 43 today, and I’m still here.

This may not seem like much of an accomplishment to most of you. Some of you recognize this statement as one of solidarity. You, too, are still here today. And I want to start by saying that I see you. I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re still here.

Beyond this sometimes daily struggle, 43 is a specifically significant and weighty age for me. As far back as I can remember (at least high school), I’ve found it impossible to ever answer any questions related to old age. Or retirement. Or grandchildren. For the majority of my life, I’ve been convinced that I would die early. And hey, it could still happen, depending on your definition of “early.” But for me, in particular, I could never see a world where I lived beyond 42.

Why that number? Impossible to say. This was early enough that I don’t believe I have the Hitchhiker’s Guide to blame for this number being significant. But it has always and forever been a bright, looming signpost on the horizon as the years rapidly approached.

It’s tough to really articulate what damage that’s actually done to me, and much of it is still something I’m only now beginning to process. I have always felt permanently stuck in the middle of two worlds. One is the fatalistic, nearly nihilistic mindset of not bothering to try too hard, not attempting to build something too lasting, and not wanting to engage too much. After all, there’s not much of me left, and it would be a disservice to those around me to give them anything other than 0% or 100%. And so, far too often, the decision was nothing. Or at least, not nearly enough. And for that, I’m sorry.

I recall hedging my bets on workplace opportunities, education, and more. The noncommittal approach to everything, not because I was afraid of locking in, but because I didn’t want to promise something I couldn’t guarantee to deliver. And I didn’t want to let those people down if they were counting on me, and I just up and disappeared. It’s funny how that’s the thing I’ve always been worried about. Not being missed, but that I would fail on a promise to someone.

On the other side of things is the desire to have accomplished something—anything—of lasting value in the world before I disappear. For many, unless they get lucky early in life, those legacy moments are established or understood very late. A culmination of significance in an industry. A piece of art or writing of renown that would be shared for generations to come. A family line or mentorships of incredible leaders that are multiplicative and wide-ranging. Something worth being remembered for. Even if not in name, in value. To leave a mark on the world and prove that my short life still had value.

This tug-of-war I’ve placed myself in for over 25 years has ruined my ability to be present. It’s stymied all my attempts at forward progress. I have started so many things over the years, only to throw in the towel very quickly if they don’t take off almost immediately. The mantra spoken to me over and over throughout the years has been the reminder of “long devotion in one direction.” And every time I heard it, I hated it. “I don’t have that long to waste.” Yet the result was that I’ve become very good at wasting time.

It would seem that when you can’t decide which direction to swim in, what you end up doing is treading a lot of water. You wear yourself out just trying not to drown and still end up going nowhere.

I’m 43 today, and I’m still here.

It’s funny, but incredibly telling, that I started a podcast a few years ago with some of these thoughts in mind. Entitled “One More Thing Before I Go,” it ran for about 20 episodes and focused on letting someone I knew tell stories about their life or what they were working on. At the end, I always asked the guest to share the one thing they wanted to convey to the world if this were their last chance. One of the final episodes I recorded was a short one where I answered this question. No guest, just honesty about not wanting to die without having left something of value behind.

I just checked the time stamp of the final episode I released. Early March 2020. The month the modern world changed forever. I could even blame the pandemic for ruining the run, but the truth was that over the podcast’s 3.5 months, I had failed to find an audience and was already giving up. Coupled with the fact that I had many more people lined up to interview who canceled, the well was already dry. The pandemic was a convenient scapegoat to cover for yet another failed project.

I’m 43 today, and I’m still here.

I write a lot. You would be forgiven for not knowing, I suppose. I’m terrible about marketing myself. But I’ve won awards for writing, won contests, and attended special invitation-only events for authors for decades. I put a lot of work into my projects and put a lot of work out, but it largely goes unseen. I have three published nonfiction books available for sale. There have been a total of 485 sales, but each release sees fewer and fewer readers. 

I also lead a writing collective of tabletop gaming authors who have published about 18 books in the last 3 years. Our works have over 4,000 total sales across multiple platforms. But the industry is fickle, and the collective has begun to fracture, pursuing other interests. Plus, given the state of the world, many are struggling just to stay afloat or maintain other paying jobs.

I’m 43 today, and I’m still here.

I’ve got another book that I’ve written. It’s perhaps the most important thing I’ve authored, to date. And I hate it. At least right now. It’s finished, and I need to go back and edit heavily. I keep telling people that it’s mostly that I don’t want to dredge through the edits and need a break. But the honest truth is that it’s getting harder and harder to put meaningful words onto pages that will never be opened. Every time, it’s like a confession of unrequited love. Eventually, you just decide to stop putting yourself out there. When those around you who have the means to expand and amplify your voice choose instead to stifle it, there are only so many times you can try to advocate for yourself before you give up.

After all, I don’t matter. I haven’t proven that I matter. Perhaps the next book will establish a voice someone will decide has value. But then, that’s what I said about the last one. And the one before that. I deeply resonate with the line from Hamilton about writing like you’re running out of time. There’s so much to say and so little time to say it, because there’s always a ticking clock, or a time bomb, echoing in my brain, no matter how much I try to shake it.

I haven’t done enough. I haven’t been enough. I haven’t accomplished enough. And I’ve always feared that I wouldn’t. That I couldn’t. I struggle to remain present. Death is always a looming monolith in the distance.

Until today. Now, I sit wondering how to cobble together a life that I should have done a better job of working on for my entire adult life. I’m not prepared for what comes next. I don’t have a vision of what it looks like for my children to graduate from college, get married, or anything at all that includes me being around. This wasn’t in the cards.

You can ask my family. I’ve not been shy or hidden any of this from them. To the best I could, I’ve always attempted to prepare them to be self-sufficient enough that they won’t need me when the inevitable happens. I’ve probably scarred them all in various ways because of this, and now I have the real rest of my life to attempt to make up for it. I’ve already heard it from the children in different forms. That they’re struggling to envision a future, or success, or a career. And that’s largely on me for not setting a different expectation or being a better example.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I’ve never known what a day would give, but now I’m presented with a tomorrow that I never expected. And a day after that, and then a day after. Maybe someday, I’ll finally be able to answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Because I’m finally, slowly, coming to terms with the fact that I’m having to actually come up with an answer. And will keep having to.

I’m 43 today, and I’m still here. Let’s try for 44.