Asking "What Am I Living For" After Forty, Is It Too Late

— Hey, what did you dream of doing back then?

A grilled hotpot place, a little before eleven. Six of us were left at the class reunion table, the class monitor's beer had lost its ice, and the plate of roasted peanuts was down to a few husks. The friend across from me asked it sincerely, meaning nothing by it, chopsticks still in her hand.

I held my glass and could not speak. Not because I had forgotten. I remembered roughly what I had dreamed, and remembering made me feel I was standing a very long way from there, without knowing when I had set out. I laughed, said "forgotten", and picked up another mushroom. On the motorbike ride home the question rode along: I am forty-three, an accountant at a small company, and only now am I asking "what am I living for". Is that too late.

Do you think asking this at forty-three is too late? I thought so too, and a few other things besides. This piece gathers four things I hear, from other people and from myself, and then says where each one falls short.

This piece does not say every question is light, and it does not say "any age is fine" in the tone of a consolation just to be done. It does not promise you an answer by next year either. Some questions sit for a long time without an answer, and that is all right. I only want to lift off some of the judgements laid over the question, so it can stand on its own.

"Asking at this age is too late"

Monday morning, ten past eight, the accounting desk. The month-end balance sheet was open, an iced milk coffee sat beside the mouse, and the printer behind me rattled. The question from the reunion night sat right beside the keyboard, like a colleague who had arrived early.

People say it, and I say it to myself too: if I had asked earlier there would still have been time to do something. Looking back now, twenty years have gone, so asking now is a waste.

The word "late" sounds measurable, but I sat thinking and could not work out what it was measured against. Against some imagined person who asked this at twenty-five and walked the right road? I have never met that person. And there is something under it: for many people, this question arrives after the things before it are partly done. Looking after the household, looking after the children, looking after whatever the deadline was. It did not come earlier because there was no room for it then. Arriving now may not be late at all, it may be the first time there is room.

How to tell you are doing it right: the map has crumbs of detail, like the name of the cat then, or the smell of an old apartment kitchen, and no word "should have". The first time, many people find the three columns suddenly spill over with an unexpected feeling, maybe regret, maybe missing. I lingered a long time on the five-years-ago column. After a week, some people find the "too late" eases because it now has a shape, and others find it just as heavy as before. On a busy day, write only the this-year column, three lines.

The most common slip is turning the map into an inventory of regret: "ten years ago I should have...", "five years ago I ought to have...". It is tempting because it sounds like looking back seriously. But the words "should have" only lead to a place where nobody lives any more. Instead, write only where you were, who was there, what you heard. Describe, do not sentence.

"Asking means I have lived wrong"

Lunch break, the accounting office, two of us sharing a bag of mixed rice-paper salad. I had let slip something about that question. Mai at the next desk chewed and glanced at me.

— You have too much free time so you think nonsense. People living normally do not ask things like that.

— Yes, probably.

I smiled it off, and that afternoon I entered two lines wrongly in the ledger.

The hidden meaning in that remark is: if you lived right you would not need to ask. Asking means something has gone wrong. I hear that sentence in my own head more than from anyone, and every time I hear it I go searching for what I did wrong.

But a question is not a verdict. My asking "what am I living for" is an event, the way feeling hungry is an event. "I ask because I lived wrong" is a different sentence, one I attached myself, and it is the heavy part. Some people live fairly steadily and still ask. Some people live in a mess and never ask. The two are not as tightly tied as people think.

How to tell you are doing it right: the new sentence sounds bare, a little flat, with no feeling attached. The first time, many people find the new sentence strange, as if reading someone else's, and some feel a slight catch in the throat. That feeling is normal. After a week, some people find they blame themselves less each time the question surfaces, and others still blame themselves and only notice it sooner. On a busy day, just cross out the "because", no need to rewrite.

The most common slip is swapping the judgement for a falsely cheerful sentence: "I ask because I am growing". It is tempting because it sounds kinder. But it is still a judgement, with the sign flipped. I tried it, and after two days I could not believe it myself. Keep the bare sentence. It is true, and it can stand.

"I have enough, so asking is ungrateful"

Nine at night, the kitchen sink, warm water running over my hands, the smell of lemon dish soap. The child was asleep, my husband watching television in the living room on low. I stood there scrubbing a pot, and the question arrived, tidy, with no warning.

Right after it came another voice, a more familiar one: you have work, a home, people who love you, what else are you asking for. So ungrateful.

I have listened to that voice too long to think it belongs to a cruel person. It sounds like someone trying to protect me from feeling lost, but protecting by covering my mouth. The word "ungrateful" turns two things that can sit side by side, gratitude and the question, into two things you must choose between. But they do not belong in the same drawer. A person can be grateful for the bowl of rice at home and still not know what they are living for. Both are true. One does not erase the other.

How to tell you are doing it right: you do not need to soften the second sentence. The first time, many people find "and" odd, because they are used to saying "but". Some feel slightly awkward writing "I still ask" right under a line of gratitude. After a week, some people find the two sentences argue less in their head, and others still argue, only more quietly. On a busy day, just think the two sentences while washing your hands, no need to write.

The most common slip is using the first sentence to crush the second immediately: "I am grateful for... so stop asking". It is tempting because it sounds like it is settled. But the question is only pushed down, and the next day it comes back up with a little extra shame. Instead let the two stand side by side, neither doing the other's job. And if you are tired of hearing the "ungrateful" voice, the piece on permitting yourself to rest without guilt deals with something from the same family.

"I need an answer that sounds right"

The wedding of an acquaintance's child, a round table, twelve people, the chicken salad already half cold. An older woman sitting next to me looked over, chopsticks still holding a bite.

— How are you these days, is work going well?

— Oh, about the same.

— Well, as long as you are fine.

I nodded, but in my head was a long sheet of paper full of answers I had not said. I knew the woman did not need to hear them all. The hard part was that I felt I needed a line that sounded right, one that sounded as if I knew where I was going, instead of saying "oh, I do not know yet".

I think about that a lot. When people ask "how are you lately" they usually want a short line that is easy to take, so the conversation can move on. They are not asking for a manifesto. The pressure to have a polished answer is mostly something I set on myself, not something the asker set. To check, try it: when I say something very short and true, they usually still nod and ask about the chicken salad.

How to tell you are doing it right: the line you choose does not make you feel you have to brace. The first time, many people find the true line sounds small and a bit flat, and some feel awkward saying it aloud to themselves. After a week, some people get to use it at a real meal and find the listener notices less than they feared, and others have had no occasion yet. On a busy day, just write one line, no need to practise aloud. If you would like to understand more about what people really want to hear, the piece on listening without composing a reply offers a view from the listener's side.

The most common slip is picking a polished line like "I am on a journey of finding myself". It is tempting because it sounds deep and safe. But the listener often does not know what to say next, and the conversation stops. A short true line like "lately I keep thinking about how to live in a way that counts as living" usually opens more. If the listener asks further, you decide whether to go on. Some people who read four misunderstandings about "purpose in life" feel lighter once they see where the pressure to "have an answer" comes from.

If you tried it and it did not work

Two reasons come up often.

The first: the four above are not what you actually believe. Maybe the belief holding you back is a different sentence, like "I have not earned the right to ask" or "asking makes things hard for others". The method is still similar: write that sentence word for word on paper, do not polish it, then look at which word it starts with. Most such sentences have a hidden "must" or "should" inside, and seeing it is already a step.

The second: whatever you write feels heavy, and this emptiness is not new, it has gone on for many weeks, along with eating and sleeping out of rhythm or no wish to see anyone. At that point the exercises above are not what you need. Speaking to a professional, a doctor or someone who works in mental health, is worth doing earlier than I once thought. If you have thoughts of hurting yourself, please go to Emergency Support today.

Do not just take my word. Try one of the four, on an ordinary evening, and see for yourself.

Last night I stood at the kitchen sink again, warm water running over my hands. The question was still there. I let it stand beside me, and went on scrubbing the pot.

This article was created with AI assistance.