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Charles* steps into my office. We exchange pleasantries about all things fun: His latest meal experiments, news of his daughter’s engagement, trips he dreams of taking. In typical Charles fashion he comments on the print of Cinque Terre, Italy adorning my office wall. “I’ll be back,” he chuckles.
Before long, our conversation turns toward what Charles feels behind his smile, his recent promotion, his picturesque home – behind the façade of who he’s always thought he had to be.
He reveals new thoughts and feelings he has been having. Or are they old? Confusing ones. Memories surfacing that he had not meant to push down, but did. Losses, perceived failures, moments of hurt only he knows. He aims his words at the floor, and seldom makes eye contact.
Beyond the “midlife crisis” stereotype
From an outsider’s perspective, the experience of guys like Charles - men in the throes of midlife - has often been misunderstood. Thanks to pop culture and pop psychology, we throw on labels like “midlife crisis,” conjuring images of motorcycles, plastic surgery, and affairs — caricatures that depict careless men making reckless decisions.
The reality is that for many, entering the second half of life can be deeply destabilising. It can also offer a valuable opportunity both to reflect on the past and seek clarification for the future. Erik Erikson, the esteemed American psychoanalyst, developed a theory that helps unlock the so-called crisis and transform it into something worthy of our time and consideration.
The reality is that for many, entering the second half of life can be deeply destabilising. It can also offer a valuable opportunity both to reflect on the past and seek clarification for the future.
Stagnation and generativity
Understanding us to be both biological and social creatures, Erikson argued our psychosocial development occurs in stages, each with its own “task.” Between the ages of 40 and 65, Erikson suggests that we toggle between two poles: generativity and stagnation.
On the one hand, years of building — a home, a family, a career — arrives at a period of deep reflection for those of us willing to slow down. Perspective shifts to the next generation and consideration of your legacy.
On the other hand, those who struggle most in this period report an existential “stuckness” that cannot be shaken. Even energetic midlifers find themselves languishing in bed while their mind tries to ward off that feeling of inertia. “What was it all for?” is a common reflection, even as they go about the day’s tasks. For many, a therapeutic examination of this sensation can help uncover beliefs and feelings that shed light on the cause.
Therapy as a tool for change
For Charles, therapy helped him acknowledge and uncover how his past was shaping his present. Remember how he could barely look at me while sharing honestly? Exploring this pattern revealed that he grew up in an emotion-phobic home. Like many of their generation, Charles's parents could not make space for their own emotions, let alone his. So Charles learned to suppress his emotions, too, which he did for decades, until his 17-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumour.
Once the levee of suppression broke under the weight of his love and grief, Charles found himself scared — terrified — by how much he felt, and even more by how alone he felt. “No one prepared me for this. No one knows me or how hard this has been for me. I walk into rooms and feel pressure to be Happy Charlie. I’m alone in this charade.”
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
Undoing aloneness
Diana Fosha, the developer of the therapy modality Accelerated Experimental-Dynamic Psychotherapy (AEDP), often refers to therapy as the process of “undoing aloneness”. Where there was once isolation with overwhelming emotions and experiences, there can grow a sense of connection and increased processing. One of the most commonly reported sensations after processing trauma is that the memory still exists, but it no longer holds the emotional charge it once did. The “gut punch” has been removed from your most painful, intense memories.
As a trauma-informed therapist, much of the work I do with someone like Charles involves exploring the relationship between the past, the present, and the future.
Research shows that when we have experienced big T Traumas (war, car collisions, unexpected deaths) or little t traumas (bullying, repeated emotional invalidation from a parent), our nervous systems attach these negative sensations, emotions, and beliefs to that moment or series of moments. Clients report feeling young and scared when their spouse stonewalls them emotionally. Or wonder why their boss’s glare seems to shrink their 30 years of experience to nothing.
Exploring the past to shape the future
A skilled therapist will guide clients through their past with a view to living differently in the future. A new future, strengthened by increased self-awareness, where one can make decisions from a place of values and priorities rather than reactions to external triggering stimuli.
As for Charles, in addition to helping create greater safety and space for emotions - both for himself and those he loves - we also discovered that part of his “stuckness” was connected to the trauma of his daughter’s diagnosis. We used eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) to remind his brain the event was over, and that she had survived. EMDR is the gold-standard trauma therapy to help process overwhelming events and complex relational traumas dating back to childhood. If you ask Charles about his daughter’s experience now, he will still tell you it was scary, and say so with direct eye contact. The memory no longer activates a fight or flight impulse.
A new way forward
Maybe you see yourself in Charles’ story.
Maybe you too see a spark of hope for change within. Therapy can provide the oxygen to help that hope grow without judgement of pace or outcome. A good therapist blends their humanity and expertise to help you discover your own priorities and next steps.
A good therapist blends their humanity and expertise to help you discover your own priorities and next steps.
Those who enter therapy at the beginning of life’s second half exhibit the quality known as “transformance.” This is the wired-in orientation towards growth every human possesses. Paired with the generativity that’s accessible during this period, one can make radical shifts in mindful action, no longer restricted by past inner blocks.
Erik Erikson wrote extensively about midlife, but his writing focused on the potential for growth inherent in this leg of our journey. No crisis is to be found. It is time we abandon the pathology-riddled language of the “midlife crisis” and replace it with something more accurate. Something that captures the immense potential for a period of growth and reflection. A period with the potential to clarify life’s second half.
Midlife transformation has a nice ring to it. What do you think?
* Charles is not a real client but a composite of midlife clients I have seen in my practice as a psychotherapist.
