Rewriting My Midlife Crisis

As I lounged on the display model of my dream sofa a couple years ago, I thought of my dog’s velociraptor nails on that supple saddle leather. If I bought such an expanse of tender leather, not only would I have to keep the sofa conditioned, I’d be forced to give Charlie a routine manicure.

After the first week of buffing out scratches (and still being too fearful to clip the beast’s toenails), my inner critic pointed out: “See! You don’t take care of things!”

My life over the past five years could be described as different variations of fight, flight or freeze. The past few months, I’ve been frozen and pulled my mid-life crisis around me like a blanket. It was much easier to keep the quilt over my head than to expose myself to the frigid air of personal growth.

Hibernation was only good for so long, and eventually it was time to poke my nose into the cold and forage for nourishment.

I grabbed a book that had been sitting in judgement and dust on my nightstand all winter. On the dedication page, Eckhart Tolle could have written: “Dear Keri, nearly every word of this book will apply to you.”

“A New Earth” helped clarify that my ‘existential crisis’ was really just my ego grasping for an identity. When I experienced the loss of the roles I’d adopted (wife, homeschool mom, university instructor, Wonder Woman), I spiraled into fear and depression (i.e. Hibernation).

I didn’t know who I was anymore — and I just wanted someone to tell me what to do. Then I read this:

“Knowing yourself deeply has nothing to do with whatever ideas are floating around in your mind. Knowing yourself is to be rooted in Being, instead of lost in your mind.” — Eckhart Tolle

Tolle was telling me the person I AM is defined by what I DO.

I had to let that bitter pill dissolve on my tongue for a while.

I AM what I DO.

Ugh. I begrudgingly kicked off my quilt.

The whole point of being a writer is to be lost in your own mind. You share your outrageous ideas with the world (and ideally get paid for it). But as an athlete I know I only get stronger if I show up to do the work. Mind and emotion function similarly to the muscular and cardiovascular systems — to have healthy and regulated emotions, I have to train my brain in a consistent manner. Instead, I’ve been mindlessly fluctuating between the ego roles of superwoman and victim. It is a warped, all-or-nothing approach. Sprinting and then collapsing every 200 meters is not a good strategy for running the marathon of life.

Yet, I loved All-Keri and Nothing-Keri equally. They were two strong (though unhealthy) trauma-born coping mechanisms. They were hero and victim. The marathon-runner and netflix-binger. They were roles that could keep the quintessential Keri in a familiar cycle of dysfunction.

In “A New Earth,” Tolle describes the pain body, which is basically internalized trauma that is often drawn out (and sometimes takes control) in the present. In grammatical terms, I had been turning the noun ‘trauma’ (the event(s) that happened) into the adjective ‘traumatized’ (a description of myself). The only way to heal from this mindset is to first recognize it and then do some painful re-writes.

That traumatized person sought bad ways to cope: heavy drinking, extensive travel, toxic relationships. None of those things were helpful for healing: rather, it was like putting a glass dome over the pain body, so it could thrive.

In order to breathe, you have to remove the dome. Let out the moisture. Pluck the funky sprouts.

At the end of my moving day last August, all my belongings were inside the new apartment except the sofa, which was basking in the sunshine on the patio. The movers shoved the couch into my foyer, where I allowed it to stand for seven months. The more dog hair and dust that collected on it from the open stairs, the more the ‘victim’ flourished under my emotional dome.

But avoidance of the sofa dilemma was more than the pain body taking control. I had made the sofa a symbol — a commitment to a new life and a new home. Commitment meant vulnerability. How could I make a commitment to a person, a place, to myself— what if I was wrong? It was much easier to let the sofa stand on its head ‘just in case’ it didn’t work out.

As a writer I am always looking for metaphors, but doing this in real life makes mountains out of mole-hills. A sofa is just a place to sit, for god’s sake. It’s not a monument.

Who am I?

I had conjured up this Future Keri in my head — she was a person who would do things “right.” But the very idea was flawed.

The person I am is not some theoretical concept — the person I AM is what I DO. Right here. Right now. I may have goals, and goals are good things, but idealizing a Future Keri is just creating another ego role for myself. Every time I didn’t live up to that idol, I could beat myself up or tell myself I wasn’t worthy of such a life.

The past few months have taught me it is enough to just BE myself. Not the victim of circumstance. Not the superhero saving the world. But the person who nurtures her creativity, intellect and emotional well-being. The person who shows up for herself in small ways every day. It is not too late. I still have half of my life ahead of me — more than that, if I live to be 120, as planned.

“The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is now.” ― Chinese proverb

I’m investing my time and energy into myself and my kids (and my dog). In the process, I’ve had to let some relationships go. I’ve taken down my online dating profiles. While it was (mostly) fun, online dating fed into the negativity I was already battling. It gave me cravings for external validation. It brewed my raw insecurities: “You’re not good enough, smart enough, fit enough.” To hell with that! I’m more than a thumbnail photo and 500 word bio.

How will you meet people in a pandemic?

Fears stick like ticks on a well-walked dog.

The fact is: it doesn’t matter if I meet people. If I nurture things I hold dear, love will happen when the time is right. If I want to attract someone who is grounded, balanced, healthy and fulfilled, then I have to BE those things (or at least be in the process of working on them).

It is incredibly easy to say I don’t care about meeting people when I’m currently seeing someone.

Yes. It’s true. I went on one last date before I called it quits, and I met the photographer.

He is a Techniker by trade who is really into (and good at) photography. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. It is different from previous relationships because I don’t feel like I’m drowning when we’re apart. I don’t think about saying or doing things just to please him — I am myself, with wild hair and dog slobber on my jeans; and yet, the Photographer keeps coming back for more.

“What’s the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning,” my therapist asked.

“Coffee,” I replied, “and then my dog.”

“Good,” he said, typing notes into his phone.

I guess it is a good thing. I’m not desperately waiting for texts to jumpstart my heart.

In the past, seeing a speed limit sign would’ve tempted me to accelerate. But this time I’ve set the Tempomat, and the Photographer and I are cruising steadily along. We laugh a lot. I speak German (which also causes laughter), and he has shown incredible patience as I learn the language. He is surprisingly thoughtful, and his companionship adds to my own happiness, rather than being the wellspring for it. He is a positive person who, despite the language barrier, appreciates my dark sense of humor. (I’ve finally learned to be sarcastic in German).

Over the past couple of months, I’ve answered those existential questions that had clung to me like sweaty bedsheets. I still battle anxiety, depression, and negative self-talk. I don’t exercise every day and sometimes eat french fries. I have more triggers than a Glock shop. However, the little things I do each day help create the balance I’ve longed for.

I read self-help books at sunrise while the birds sing. I subject myself to failure four days a week in German class. I work out (usually). I write (often). I walk the dog. I go to therapy. I’m training for a new career — one that I’m passionate about. I don’t want to do those things or think I should do those things — I just do them.

I have also fixed a few things that were broken: I repaired the freezer door that would fall on your head if you opened the fridge too forcefully. I had the sofa hoisted through the windows into the living room upstairs. I have discovered a new obsession: waxing my wooden floors. There’s something therapeutic about reviving things you’ve neglected.

I’ve stopped wishing and started doing.

Do I still have dreams?

Sure. But dreams are simply goals. And goals are only beneficial if I’m actively plugging away at them. There’s no fairy godmother to turn this pumpkin into a coach. There’s only me. Fixing things that are broken and maintaining things that are not. My home. My self. It is not glamorous. It is painful and gets your hands dirty, but it is worth the effort.

So, I will continue to speak faulty-but-slowly-improving German, check the ‘complete’ boxes on my training seminars, pin down the dog to clip his nails, and on Fridays, polish the floors and condition the leather sofa, so the family has a clean, comfortable place to gather.

This is who I am.

I am the author of this life, and I’ve chosen to not focus so much on the happy ending but to rewrite the falling action.