The Inflection Point

What mid-life teaches us about time, meaning, and becoming

Midlife has a strong brand. From the infamous “midlife crisis” (or awakening, depending on how you see it) to Carl Jung’s famous quote, “Life really does begin at forty. Up until then, you’re just doing research,” the significance of this phase is so deeply ingrained in our collective psyche that it can feel like we spend most of our 30s preparing for our 40s.

That’s because mid-life is a rite of passage. You’ve lived enough to understand the cost of your choices, but you’ve still got time to make different ones. You hold wisdom in one hand and possibility in the other. You have the gift of time, but not so much that you’ll waste it.

If age were a mountain, forty would be the moment you reach the peak, pause to take in the view, and realize there are still countless mountains ahead.

The difference now is that you’re more prepared to climb them. Not because doing so is any easier, but because your capacity to navigate uncertainty and challenge has expanded. You’ve lived. You’ve failed. You’ve learned. And part of that learning is knowing just how much you still don’t know.

That’s one of the most powerful markers of mid-life—you’re more ok with not knowing because you recognize that it’s an integral part of the process. It means there’s more life to live! There’s a freedom to it, unlike the freedom of early adulthood. You’ve developed a muscle for discerning what matters, and somehow that makes building and becoming feel more effortless.

If we have the privilege and courage, the first half of our lives can feel like an adventure filled with creative exploration and self-discovery. While exhilarating, it’s also exhausting, terrifying, and destabilizing. Research is inherently uncertain—there are more questions than answers, more unexpected outcomes than validation. Choosing this path isn’t easy. It’s often taken by rebels, non-conformists, and creative types who feel called to challenge the norms.

This is the path I took and the path that many take. Although it may seem like we’re late bloomers, we’ve simply allowed our curiosities to act as a compass for our lives. There are tradeoffs to this way of being—on the one hand, we develop a strong capacity for adaptability by giving ourselves space to experiment. On the other hand, it can take us longer to dedicate ourselves to something worthy of our energy. When you’re not following a blueprint, you’re often responding to what life reveals in real time. And life, I’ve learned, doesn’t care about our plans or timelines. It moves to its own rhythm and invites you to dance with it.

There’s been an interesting shift happening for me this year as I bid farewell to my thirties. I feel myself grieving in the in-between moments that aren’t filled with work or social obligations. I see flashes of the people I could have been, the careers I chose not to pursue, the relationships that ended. I’m shedding skin, making way for something new, and navigating the duality of celebrating the journey while mourning the loss of dreams I know will never manifest.

If someone asked me today what it means to be a grown-up, I’d say it means to choose. And with choosing comes letting go. We cannot be, have, or do everything, by design, and this limitation is both a gift and a struggle. Life presents us with choices every day, and our choices shape our trajectory and determine who we become. Midlife offers a unique opportunity to look back at the montage of your years and reflect on how you’ve lived.

I’m asking myself the hard questions—ones I’ve been asking my whole life—but now I can answer with more courage, clarity, and conviction: Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

Of course, the rest of my life isn’t guaranteed. Something about this decade makes that feel ever so real. If I’m lucky, I might get another 40 years, but I might not, and that’s important to consider, because it changes how I think about and spend my most finite resource—time.

Time is the currency we exchange for everything that matters—from love to purpose to what we leave behind.

In the final episode of White Lotus season 3, Carrie Coon’s character, Laurie, shares a beautiful reflection with her two best friends, during which she says, “I don’t need religion or God to give my life meaning because time gives it meaning.” It does. It really does. The passage of hours, days, months, the laugh lines and white hair, watching your friends’ kids grow an inch every time you see them, tending to your parents who slowly become more dependent on you year over year. The compounding effect of lived experience is that you get to step back every decade and witness the interconnectedness between all of the seemingly random people and events that now fit together like a perfect puzzle. It makes me feel like a successful life isn’t one filled with achievements but one that’s awe-inspiring, not to others but to the person living it.

If you’re really here—awake, aware, paying attention—life will take your breath away every now and then.

Because it doesn’t go according to plan. You don’t get everything you’d hoped for. Some doors never open, some lead to other doors, and some demand that you leave all comfort and familiarity behind. Between the breakdowns and breakthroughs, the regrets and surprises, the deaths and rebirths, you emerge—again and again. Sometimes you’re a stranger even to yourself. The work of “know thyself” never ends—it just gets more interesting, maybe even more enjoyable.

The key, I believe, is to dance. Not to play, because life is not a game, but to immerse ourselves in reality in such a way that we begin to notice the intricacies of the universe in the mundane. To allow ourselves to appreciate each moment, even when we feel undone.

We are living through such wild and wondrous times. As someone who remembers a world free of personal devices and the internet—and who now has the opportunity to participate in the greatest technological revolution in human history—I can’t help but be moved by it all. I feel humbled and naive. And I want to feel that way. We don’t know what we don’t know, but we do know that great change is upon us. We do know that we’re expanding our potential. We do know that a decade from now, the world will be a different place, and we can barely imagine it from our current vantage point.

And we get to choose. I get to choose. Not just how to live, but how I want to contribute to the evolution of humanity. What a great honour, to be able to choose how to serve, how to spend one’s time and energy. I’m so acutely aware that when my grandmother and mother were my age, they did not have this choice. And I’m also aware that I have this choice, at least for now, partly because of who I am and where I live.

Forty doesn’t just ask what you want to do with your life—it demands you decide what you’re willing to devote yourself to. It’s the inflection point where you finally understand the relationship between freedom and responsibility. That they’re not separate but deeply intertwined. Freedom isn’t the absence of obligation—it’s the outcome of choosing what to be responsible for. And responsibility isn’t a sacrifice when it’s rooted in purpose. The more intentional we are with our choices, the more authentic our lives become.

Time, because of its finite nature, becomes a forcing function for focus. It’s not arbitrary—it’s non-negotiable. Once an hour passes, it’s gone. By midlife, you begin to experience time in a different way. Spending it on anything misaligned with your truth, mission, or vision starts to feel intolerable.

Time gives life meaning, meaning leads to clarity, and clarity is the foundation of authenticity. Only when we’re clear do we realize how much precious time we spend swimming in the sea of internal noise and external distraction. From caring too much about what others think to avoiding our own shadow, the distortions begin to lose their power the more we embrace the wisdom of age. Eventually, only what matters most gets to take up space—the rest falls away to make room for what’s essential and worthwhile.

There’s a quietness as I cross this threshold. The existential questioning has settled. The path is unfolding. Decisions feel heavier but easier to make. Care and attention have become valuable currencies. Money is a tool, an ingredient in the recipe, not a means to an end or an end in itself. People are incredible—their flaws and redeeming qualities—they are the greatest teachers. Nature is religion. The cosmos feel closer, somehow. Dreams are messengers, orchestrators. The lines between death and consciousness are blurring. Reality is malleable. Answers are less relevant. Hope is fuel. The world is a playground. Everything is as it should be and not how I imagined it would be at all. Life is a mystery, still, for which I am thankful. It means I get to stay curious.

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