Field Notes from a Human Life
I didn’t miss it until it came back.
That’s the thing about certain pleasures. You don’t grieve them loudly. You don’t make a list. You just adjust. Move on. Assume that part of life is over, like the summer job you never meant to leave.
But then it comes back—unexpectedly—and you realize: oh right. I used to love this.
It might be music. Dancing. Driving at night with the windows down. Making something with your hands. Getting dressed for no reason. Saying something funny and hearing someone laugh so hard they can't breathe.
The thing doesn’t matter as much as what it stirs. A memory. A muscle. A version of you that’s been on mute.
Midlife is full of quiet forgetting
We forget parts of ourselves all the time. Not on purpose. Not out of neglect. Just out of practicality.
You can’t do everything. You have kids. You have deadlines. You have a sore hip and a partner who doesn’t like that band and a garage full of good intentions.
You forget how loud you used to sing in the car.
You forget the way certain spices used to make you feel.
You forget what it’s like to lose track of time doing something that doesn’t earn you anything.
And then, one day, you get a flash of it. And it undoes you.
Not dramatically. Just enough to stop you mid-sentence. Just enough to make you sit down and stare out the window and whisper to yourself: I want that back.
This is not a crisis. It’s a cue.
You’re not broken for missing something you let go.
You’re not shallow for wanting a bit of joy back.
You’re not ungrateful for wondering what else might still be possible.
You’re just paying attention. Finally.
And paying attention is where all change starts.
So what do you do when something lost finds its way back to you?
You don’t overthink it.
You don’t try to monetize it.
You don’t turn it into a lifestyle.
You just let it in.
Even for five minutes.
Even awkwardly.
Even if it doesn’t look the same anymore.
You try the thing again.
You book the class.
You dance in the kitchen.
You wear the earrings.
You start the story.
You play the song.
And you watch something quietly return to life—not just the activity, but the part of you that got tucked away beside it.
You’re still in there.
Not the 23-year-old version. Not the pre-baby version. Not the version who thought she’d be further ahead by now.
The current you. The bruised, brilliant, still-figuring-it-out you.
The one who forgot how much she used to love _____.
And who just remembered.
Let that remembering lead you somewhere new. Or somewhere old.
Let it lead you home.