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“Life really does begin at forty. Up until then, you are just doing research.” —Carl Jung
There’s a particular kind of stuckness that I’ve known in myself and observed in others, that I haven’t been able to name until now. It involves the relentless notion that you’re late—that you’re behind the others, too far gone, that you missed the boat, that the door has closed, it’s game over, you waited too long, you’re too old or too (fill in the blank)—to try now.
Thinking of launching that business? LATE.
Going back to school? LATE.
Finding a partner? LATE.
Reconciling with an old friend? LATE.
Recording your first album? LATE.
Making that career transition? LATE.
Have you felt this, too? Where an idea barely has the chance to surface and—bam! LATE gets stamped across your paper-thin hopes.
It can be hard to know when to start. We have all kinds of how-to knowledge, but very little when-to. And then add to that a nagging sense of scarcity—time slipping away, opportunities dwindling—and it's no wonder we get stuck.
The myth of starting too late is a powerful story we tell ourselves, but it's just that—a story. One that we can choose to re-narrate. How different would our lives look if we let go of the too late story? And what possibilities might be waiting, if we were to start, now—which is right on time.
I was desperate to find the starting line for a career transition that I’d been needing for some time
You’re not trapped
The year I turned 30, my wife and I bought a house that came with a two car garage and a tool shed. Though I didn’t own any tools at the time, I quickly began collecting them. On the edge of our small town there was a hardware store that had complimentary popcorn. I’d often drive there on weeknights to wander the aisles with greasy fingers and heavy boredom. I was stuck. I was desperate to find the starting line for a career transition that I’d been needing for some time. But rather than risking change, I hyper focussed on Dewalt reciprocating saw blades. And after that, lawn care.
I had applied that year to a graduate school in Seattle, and didn’t get in — turns out they weren’t taking international students at the time. With my one best idea shot down, I was gutted—as far as I could see, I was all out of options. At 30. I recall telling myself that I should be thankful that I had a job and that plenty of people ride it out until retirement. Again, I was 30.
Around this time, my friend Dean came into my office one day. And because Dean had a way of asking, “how are you doing?” in a way that sounded like he actually meant it, I told him.
I was honest. I cried. There’s only so much hot buttered popcorn you can pour on top of the sadness of an unlived life. I told him I was a man who had a house, a Honda, a tool shed with all kinds of screws in labelled yogurt containers, and I was a man who had no vision for the future.
He listened and then said, “You’re not trapped you know.”
This is the limiting belief of lateness, that life/the opportunity/the dream, has already passed you by.
That’s how he said it. So abrupt. No soft condolences, just a declarative statement of reality. It was the exact thing I needed to hear. Because I wasn’t trapped—except for being convinced in my mind that I was.
This is the limiting belief of lateness, that life/the opportunity/the dream, has already passed you by. The limiting belief of lateness leaves you stranded in a perpetual present—not in a mindful way but in an all out of options and futures kind of way.
Of course there is real lateness. Windows do close, seasons pass, and the chance to become an olympic speed skater at 60 isn’t going to happen. But I’m talking about a belief—a perception rather than a truth—of lateness, and how it can steal your hope.
When I revisit this story, I usually feel embarrassed. What was I thinking? I wasn’t late…I was 30! But it always gives me pause to wonder, what limiting belief of lateness might I be holding right now?
“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.
A beautiful list of late bloomers
Apparently, comedian Jimmy Carr keeps a list of people who found success later in life. He revisits the list to be reminded that everyone is on their own timeline. I’ve borrowed this idea and have my own running list of late bloomers. Here are a few favourites:
Betty White was an icon and award-winning actress, but her career didn’t take off until she joined the cast of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" in 1973. She was 51.
Julia Child was in advertising before writing her first cookbook at age 50, which launched a new career as a celebrity chef in 1961.
While working as a political commentator and writer, Arianna Huffington founded The Huffington Post at age 55.
Jack Cover started his career as a scientist at NASA and IBM before becoming an entrepreneur at 50, eventually inventing the Taser stun gun in 1970.
Morgan Freeman was in the U.S. Air Force before leaving to start acting. He got his first break at 50.
Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote her semi-autobiographical stories with the editing help of her daughter, Rose. She got started as a published author at age 65 in 1932, publishing the first book in the "Little House" series.
Anna Mary Robertson Moses (better known as ‘Grandma Moses’), began her prolific painting career at 78. In 2006, one of her paintings sold for $1.2 million.
Nobel and Pulitzer Prize-winning author Toni Morrison wrote her first novel at age 40, while she was working as an editor. She won her Pulitzer Prize when she was 56, and her Nobel Prize in Literature at 62.
And perhaps my favourite, William Stafford. Stafford started publishing poetry at the age of 46. He went on to truly hit his stride, composing 20,000 poems by the end of his life.
Were any of these people late? Really. Were they?
The point is, they started.
Late(nt)
In my work as a coach, I often hear different versions of the limiting belief of lateness. One of the most powerful ways to shift a limiting belief is by finding new perspectives in unexpected places.
Have you ever noticed how etymologically close late is to latent? Latent means: “present and capable of emerging or developing but not now visible or obvious.”
Have you ever noticed how etymologically close late is to latent? Latent means: “present and capable of emerging or developing but not now visible or obvious.” Could late simply mean “not having had the chance to finish spelling the word”? It’s getting to it…the nt is coming!
I mean really, what if you weren’t late, but latent? As a thought experiment, try inserting the definition of latent into the following:
Launching that business? Present and capable of emerging…but not now visible or obvious.
Starting a new habit? Present and capable of emerging…but not now visible or obvious.
Creating your newsletter? Present and capable of emerging…but not now visible or obvious.
What would it do to hold this belief for others? Or even more daringly, for yourself?
Mid-century author and speaker Earl Nightingale once said, “Don't let the fear of the time it will take to accomplish something stand in the way of your doing it. The time will pass anyway; we might just as well put that passing time to the best possible use.”
Might as well. You can start any time. Remember you’re working off your own timetable and no one else’s. And the reality is you likely won’t ever feel ready.
But that's ok because starting lines don’t live in the land of ready. Your starting line lives in the land of wobbly, uncertain, and trembling vulnerability.
You’re present and capable of emerging. Because you’re not late; you’re latent.
