Defying Timelines: I Waited and I Won

And it's never too late

Digital Art Collage by Stella Kalaw

In a culture that marvels at prodigies, I'm rooting for late bloomers. Most of us want to be granted ample time, but people like me need those extra years to get things done. As it turns out—and apologies for the shameless cliché ahead—it’s never too late to achieve your dreams.

On the eve of my fiftieth birthday, teetering atop the proverbial hill, I was celebrating in New York City along with fifteen of my girlfriends. As one often does on milestone birthdays, I was privately taking stock of my accomplishments and where I was headed. Among many ruminations, I couldn’t help but lament my unfulfilling job and the futile efforts to replace it with something that was more gratifying.

Fortuitously, it was then that I learned about an open position at a private school. In the bustle of Times Square, I scanned the job description and was excited by what seemed to be everything that I had been seeking. But this change would mean shifting industries after a 25-year career in public health and I assumed that I would encounter barriers at this stage of life. Yet, fuelled by the support and infectious energy of the women around me, I felt compelled to shatter those barriers—real or imagined. And so I went after the job and got it. In short order, I was promoted, and now I’m thriving and continuing to learn and grow.

Not long after I secured the new job, I gave birth to my first child—a baby, but not of the human kind. Rather, after almost a decade of researching and writing and revising and editing, I completed my first novel, a story about four women managing the uncertainties and complexities of life. The literary journey was winding and bumpy, but every unexpected turn added depth to the narrative and to my own experience as well. How thrilling it was to celebrate the achievement at my book launch, surrounded by family and friends.

Little did I know, as the final period was placed on the last sentence, a new and unexpected chapter in my life was to be penned. In my mid-fifties, single, and having all but relegated the prospect of romantic love to the past, I met the person who would become a central character in my personal story—this, in the middle of a pandemic when everyone around the globe was forced apart and confined to their homes. It was a miracle of sorts.

There were countless outdoor strolls, virtual dates, and conversations through protective face masks. The intensity typically associated with the beginnings of a relationship was diluted. But we were both motivated, and something intangible, something enchanting, drew us to one another. Somehow, in the craziness that characterized that time, he and I fell for each other, and almost two years later, we walked down the aisle.

Our wedding was pure magic. Otherworldly, even. Our family and friends joined my groom and me as we were transported to a fantastical realm of joy and happiness. The love permeated the room. Still, while this was a testament to the adage “all good things come to those who wait,” there were profound consequences to having reached this event at midlife.

My dear father, having passed away three years earlier, was not there to share in the celebration. The pain, amid the happiness, ran deep. I regretted that this part of my story had not been written earlier. While not one to search for meaning in happenstance, I latched on to my brother’s astute observation that, while only nine people were seated at our table during the reception, there was a tenth chair, symbolic of the belief that my dad is always present and watching over me.

It has been a red-letter decade replete with new beginnings. The first fifty years, with their trials and triumphs, set the stage for a promising second fifty. Resilience, courage and tenacity have been driving forces, providing me with the hope that great things are still to come. The road ahead will undoubtedly hold many unforeseen twists, but I have learned that an odyssey can represent more opportunities than hindrances, though it is not always obvious at the time.

There is an expression in the Yiddish language that well-wishers offer on various occasions, but primarily to those celebrating birthdays. Biz hundert un tsvantsik, they say, meaning may you live a long life or, literally, until the age of 120. It’s an idiom, an exaggeration, to be sure, but it’s the track I hope I’m on.