Well…18 minutes ago it became official: I’m 45 years old.
For some reason this year I had to stay up to the EXACT moment. The exact moment that I made it. Sounds weird. But I needed to feel turning 45. A few short years ago my older/wiser/awesomer brother, Steve, said those words to me when I called him on his birthday. “I made it”, he said. He probably doesnt even realize it. But I’ve never forgotten them. Because like you, sweet late nite blog reader, I wondered what the heck he meant by those 3 words.
I made it.
He said to me: “I made it past the age Dad died.”
It’s a strange feeling, really. As an adult thinking back on it. He was 44 when he took his last breath. At the time he seemed to have lived 100 years…a full life…gone too soon for sure, but long, adultish life lived.
Grieving feels different this many years down the road. It’s more of an ache now…not that sharp stabbing pain ripping open your chest, but rather, an ache that still throbs. I read recently that the only way to get thru grief is to grieve. I grieve for all that he missed. I grieve for the life he should’ve had 45+.
But today, I’m smiling because I made it. I think he’s smiling, too. I will live the rest WELL. I will live the rest that he missed. I will appreciate every day I get beyond what he did.
I believe without doubt that my life matters. I’m here for purpose. We all are. He was. I don’t want to miss any of it.
I made it.
Time to lean in and throttle up. 45.