Today I am 44 years old. I am now the same age that my father was when he died. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and it’s one of the reasons Jen and I quit our jobs and hit the road. I thought I had come to terms with it, but the reality hit me pretty hard this morning.
I’m not really sure how to feel about this. Children are supposed to outlive their parents, just not by so much. I find myself looking at my life as if it was my whole life. Am I happy with the life I have lived so far? If I did die at 44 like my father did, would it be enough? I really don’t know. In some ways, my life is as close to perfect as I could hope for. I’m married to the love of my life, traveling around the West, seeing amazing things, climbing and biking basically non stop. In other ways, I feel like I have failed. A lot of things are left undone. A lot of words left unsaid.
Maybe the question is have I lived enough life so far to feel comfortable with dying? No. Fuck no. Not even close.
