“ “I’m sorry there are no make-up days available.” The text from my friend referred to a specific event that had to be cancelled with no chance of rescheduling, but the phrase resonated with something much deeper. It was two weeks after my 50th birthday, and it seemed “there are no make up days,” was a motto for my second half century. “That’s it exactly,” I texted back, “Life is short and there are no make-up days.” Over the coming days and weeks, I became a broken record,

My dog Sadie rested on the floor while I read. I looked down at her when she audibly farted. Startled, she eyed her own rear with some consternation. I chuckled and went back to my reading. A few minutes later, it happened again, with the same startled reaction from the dog. When it happened a third time, Sadie stood, walked to a different spot in the room, and re-settled herself there, as if her dog bed were the cause of her surprising tushy noises. I laughed out loud and te

“I would rather lick a cactus.” I actually said that to someone who I hired to be my coach. It was a small-group mentorship program to teach podcasters how to monetize their shows. I had already been feeling a bit of a mismatch in the program, but when I made my cactus pronouncement, I felt a sense of being trapped. From the front of the Zoom room I was being told that hustling was my only option. “Maybe part of my problem is that I also have a full time job,” I suggested al

I sometimes tell myself stories from a biography of me entitled Very Good But Not Good Enough . This many-chaptered tome is filled with half-truths and lies. However, when I pull it off the shelf and let it fall open in my lap, they appear 100% accurate. One 25-year-old chapter makes clear I am not worth a lot of effort, and purports to have been written by my grad school boyfriend. A convoluted yet boring chapter conveys the story of my being the only qualified candidate an

Listen to this essay, as read by the author. I cross paths with a poem. “Tree,” by Jane Hirschfield, ends with the line “Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.” This sentence catches in my throat. My shoulders hunch. I am not sure why I feel tears welling. I reread the words. “Immensity taps at your life.” Immensity is the universe. Tap tap. Immensity is God. Tap. Immensity is all the things I am supposed to be doing with my life, this one life, that I’m not doing. Tap