JEREMY JOJOLA

This is weird now. What happened?

I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself, although I still have this internal picture of me in my twenties—dark brown hair and about thirty pounds lighter. No gray.

Sometimes I’ll catch clips of my television news reporting online, and the guy on camera looks more like a character in a commercial for life insurance or cholesterol medication.

My hairline is now permanently at low tide, and I have these dark spots on my forehead that need to be removed by the dermatologist—who is, by the way, about ten years younger than I am.

Entering middle age is like a horrible version of puberty they don’t tell you about. Instead of the bodily upgrades that require razors and deodorant, there are downgrades that beg for Bengay and Advil.

But here I am, steeped in my forties, edging closer to fifty, and I’m finally fine with it all after a rough few years that began in my late thirties.

I’ve experienced the unexpected deaths of close friends, the slow death of a parent, and fatherhood—all at the same time, during a pandemic that brought its own onslaught of fear and unknowns.

Thanks to the reminder function in my iPhone camera roll, there are times when I see photos of myself from six years ago, and it’s hard not to gasp at how much younger I looked then. While I miss that version of myself, I’m reminded I’ll miss this version of me six years from now.

But my words here aren’t entirely a lament on aging. This is the part of the essay where I turn the corner and actually share my conclusion—one that only life experience can bring.

In a society that values youth through persistent advertisements, movies, shows, and other mass media, I’ve learned over the last few years that getting older is a privilege. Aging is a gift, even though that gift can be wrapped in physical aches and emotional pain.

Experiencing the loss of loved ones and friends forces you to face your own mortality and realize that the life goals we’ve been conditioned to chase are often trivial and unfulfilling.

The most valuable moments in life aren’t job promotions, big purchases, or awards at work. Those things are fleeting, material, and often superficial touchstones we pursue to impress others. We don’t realize this until we experience the quickening emptiness that arrives just after we reach those moments.

The most valuable moments are found in the simplest things that happen every day: quiet coffee time with my wife, the moment my little girl rushes to the door when I get home from work, or the sound of my old dog snoring after curling up next to my legs on the couch.

There is beauty to be found in life, but sometimes life has to turn ugly, hard, and difficult for us to come to that realization—and maybe that’s just the point.