And I stopped believing in it.
I’m forty-eight years old, and I’m learning something new. Not a little thing, either, not sourdough or skincare or how to use the new iOS(a doozy honestly).
Something that leaves dirt on my jeans, sweat on my back, and wonder in my chest. Something that makes me look ridiculous, inept, and sometimes terrified.
And yet, I’ve never felt more alive.
There’s a strange kind of holiness in being a beginner again at this age. You’ve lived enough life to know that failure won’t kill you, but it’ll definitely bruise your ego. You’ve collected enough “somedays” to realize that word is just a softer way to say “never.”
So I stopped saying it.
I decided to do the thing. To chase the dream. To trade comfort for curiosity.
Because being forty-eight has taught me the world doesn’t hand out courage, it hands out chances. And if you’re lucky, you’re still brave enough to take one.
For me, that chance looks like a saddle.
A herd of horses.
And a version of myself I’ve been wanting to meet.
This week I went on my first real ride. At first, all I could think about was the checklist in my head…heels down, reins even, relax your shoulders, keep her in line. My thoughts and heartbeat were sprinting in sync, a blur of effort and hope.
And then…
I looked up.
Oh, the view! The hills rolled ahead like soft folds of bread dough, brushed with buttery sunlight. Cows dotted the slopes like constellations, grazing slow and unbothered. The sky stretched wider and wilder than any I’d ever seen. Wind bent the tall grass in waves. I exhaled completely.
That’s when it hit me, this was it. This was what “starting something” could feel like. Not loud. Not grand. Just quietly, achingly alive.
As we walked, sweat shimmered on her neck, glinting like light on water. My body was working hard too. My knees began to ache. Then my shins, muscles I didn’t knew I had, burned.
I tried to stretch time, to make the ride last just a little longer.
I was born, raised, and have lived my life as a city girl. But that doesn’t erase my ability to change.
To dream without apology.
To choose the kind of brave new thing that feels silly and limitless all at once.
They say by this age, your story should already be written, neat, predictable, maybe even laminated. But I think the best parts come after the plot twist. The later chapters. The ones where you realize you can still fall in love with learning, with yourself, with possibility.
I’ve come to realize, when I pull up to the barn, it isn’t just the horses waiting for me.
It’s her.
The woman I’m becoming…dusty boots, heartbeat tuned into the herd, eyes set on the horizon.
Foolish.
Fearless.
And alive, so incredibly alive.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Ashlee Marie on Unsplash
The post Someday Is a Lie appeared first on The Good Men Project.