The holidays are finally behind us, and in theory, this is the moment when life returns to “normal.”
But I’m no longer convinced that normal is a real thing.
When I was a child, normal was simple. You went to school, rushed home to finish your homework, and then played until bedtime. If you’re anywhere near my age, you probably remember quietly staying up past that bedtime to catch Johnny Carson’s monologue—and if he had a good guest, you knew you were going to pay for it the next morning. That was normal. At least, that was my normal.
As we get older, though, our versions of normal evolve—and often unravel. What once felt predictable becomes complicated. These days, my normal looks more like controlled chaos. And I don’t say that negatively. I say it honestly.
Our days are filled with after-work responsibilities: allergy shots, doctor appointments, counseling sessions, and helping care for aging parents. If there’s any time or energy left after that, we use it to sit down for dinner, knock out a few chores, and then collapse into the evening, hoping tomorrow will be manageable.
The one constant that never seems to change is how fast time moves.
Before my brain injury, that used to bother me deeply. Aging bothered me. Not death itself—I’ve never been afraid of that—but the idea of simply getting old unsettled me.
I turned 50 last year, with another birthday right around the corner, and something surprising happened: aging no longer scares me. Living with chronic pain has a way of reshaping your perspective. It forces you to confront what truly matters and strips away fears that no longer deserve your energy.
If I’m being honest, I long for the day when I can finally be pain-free. But I have never given up hope—and I don’t plan to start now.
And neither should you.