Early this summer I reconnected with a friend I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic. We had worked together on a manuscript about his life that was finally scheduled to be published, and I was excited to hear all about it.
This was the person I had wanted to talk to when George Floyd died at the hands of Minneapolis police—his perspective and experience with the 1960s street violence in Minneapolis had helped me process what had happened during the summer of 2020.
He’s one of the clearest thinkers I know and I had missed him.
We met at a coffee shop on a sunny afternoon and once we were caught up on work, we shared the details of life in general: kids and grandkids, summer plans, developments at the nonprofit where we had met when we were both board members years ago. Eventually we landed on the topic of health and aging.
“I’ve had to get used to a new normal,” said my friend.
We talked about what that means for a man who will hit age 90 within the next year. It means walking with a cane; providing care for his wife; attending birthdays, graduations and sporting events with his family.
But a man with work and life experiences impressive enough to attract the Minnesota Historical Society is not used to being overlooked, walked around—even disregarded—in public. His new normal includes accepting that wisdom and experience can’t compete in a culture that values youth, beauty and physical prowess over all else.
A few weeks later I mentioned “the new normal” to my 38-year-old stepson. “For me, it’s about time . . . and how little I have for myself these days,” he said with a sigh.
When I first met him, he was playing weekend-long video games in the basement with his friends. After college he embarked on a month-long trip to Europe with his cousin.
A few years later, when he met the beautiful blonde who would become his wife, the two of them had fun going to concerts and UFC fights—I never understood the appeal of watching two men beat each other to a bloody pulp—or meeting friends at popular downtown bars.
Now, in addition to operating a ful-time real estate and construction business, my stepson and his wife, who also works nearly full-time, somehow manage to spend an amazing number of high-quality evening, weekend and vacation hours with their two small children.
At this point, their new normal keeps them busy during every waking minute.
My own new normal is about grieving for people I love who get sick and die—I’ve had to accept that this will happen more often as the generation I used to depend on for support faces its very last stage of life and begins to depend on me.
On the other hand, I have way more time than my stepson does to do what I enjoy. I have more time to attend to friends and extended family, more time to travel . . . even time to pursue voice lessons and the occasional fishing excursion with my grandson.
But I don’t have decades ahead to enjoy those activities.
As every therapist, guru, spiritual leader, parent figure and wise friend reminds me, the quality of however much time each of us has left depends on how we approach—and accept—the changes coming our way, both good and bad.
Life used to feel like riding a bullet train down a long, winding track.
Now I’m cruising along a short, curvy river on a boat that makes frequent stops as the landscape and passengers change. Sometimes it’s jarring, other times exciting, often serene. But one thing is certain: Life on this boat changes almost daily.
On this boat, a new normal is the new normal.