The Weight and Lightness of 45
At 45, my body feels incredible.
I’m not running marathons anymore. My pace is slower. My recovery takes longer. But I’ve learned how to care for myself in ways I didn’t when I was younger. That care is more patient now. Less about proving something. More about sustaining something.
We spend a lot of time working on our physical well-being. Diet. Exercise. Sleep. But lately I’ve been asking: How much time do we spend working on becoming more compassionate? More self-aware? More present for the people around us?
And just as importantly: How are we working on becoming someone who exists outside of our title? Outside of our output?
Because strength at 45 isn’t just about physical ability. It’s about what you carry and who helps you carry it.
Recently, during a business trip, I got a call that my father-in-law had suddenly gotten sick. My wife and brother-in-law were home, scared. And I was far away, at a conference, trying to stay composed.
I was lucky to be traveling with Leanna and Megan.
They didn’t try to fix the situation or offer quick reassurances. They sat with me, quietly. Helped me take in the weight of what was happening. Gave me room to feel it, rather than push through it. Sitting in silence is something I’ve never been good at, but they made it feel okay. Even necessary.
Today, a care package from MO Studio arrived at my house. A simple gesture: a ladle, some soup and bread, and more importantly, a note of caring. But what stood out was that it wasn’t just for me, it was for my family. That detail broke through the fog. It reminded me that people can still lead with compassion, even in work. And that being seen doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful.
That week forced a lot of reflection. Not just about health and family, but about identity. I’ve been in a season of transition, stepping away from a role that, for years, gave me structure and clarity. It’s left me in that in-between space where your footing feels uncertain and your value suddenly feels harder to articulate.
Simon Sinek once said, “People confuse what they do with who they are.”
He’s right. We meet someone new, and the first question is usually, “What do you do?” And we respond with a title. A department. A function. But when that role fades—when you no longer have that title to anchor to—what’s left?
That’s the space I’m in now. And honestly, it’s a bit disorienting.
This past year, I started seeing a therapist. Just one hour a week where I don’t have to perform, lead, or produce anything. I can just be present and be heard. That space has helped me reconnect with parts of myself I’ve been too busy to notice. It’s also helped me realize how rare it is to have someone simply sit with you in the middle of uncertainty, without trying to fix it. It feels like working out, but for your soul.
This post doesn’t have a clean conclusion. It’s a bit meandering, and that feels appropriate. It’s meandering. It’s unresolved. But it’s honest because that’s where I am right now.
Grateful. And learning, slowly, how to be a better version of myself, even when I’m not wearing a title.
I’m sharing it because I know I’m not the only one sitting in that space. And sometimes, acknowledgement by name is enough.
Thanks for reading.
