The Lie of Later: What a Dog Emergency Taught Me About Being Ready
It was my 49th birthday and I was pet sitting Bobo, a sweet Havanese pup I'd known and loved for nine years. He'd been vomiting all night. When I took him to the vet the next morning, they initially said he was probably just missing his family. But I knew it was more serious.
I insisted on another appointment that afternoon. Turned out he had pancreatitis.
Bobo thankfully recovered. But the whole experience left me shaken. Not just because of how sick he was. But because it reminded me how we lie to ourselves about readiness.
The Fantasy of Our Future Self
When it comes to life's challenges, we tell ourselves we'll be better equipped to handle them later. We imagine a future version of ourselves who will be strong, capable, wise, and calm during difficulty. Our future self will feel ready. They'll handle everything with ease.
But are we ever really ready to face heartache? Isn't the very idea of our future self a figment we conjure up as a way of deferring what we don't want to deal with right now?
I call this the Lie of Later. And I have told myself this lie many times.
It feels less scary to believe that a future time will somehow see me perfectly put together and able to glide through struggle. (And because I have a vivid imagination, I usually have perfectly styled hair and a killer outfit during said struggle…)
What Later Actually Looks Like
The Lie of Later is not the same as giving ourselves time to organize or prepare. Preparation can help us feel more at ease and less like we're spiraling. But that perfect moment we envision? It almost never materializes.
Later is a lie we hide behind, a means of avoidance. And although it offers relief in the moment, it prevents us from facing reality.
When my grandmother died some years ago, my immediate thought was that we hadn't had long enough with her. Ninety years suddenly shrank down into a a few memories. A whole lifetime reduced to a handful of moments.
She could have lived another fifty years and saying goodbye still would have felt too soon. We rarely reach a point of satiety when it comes to our loved ones. We want to continue to savor our time with them.
What I Thought Aging Would Give Me
I think I'd imagined that as part of my own aging process, I'd be able to bear grief and loss differently. That the acquired wisdom from my lived years would cushion me from the intensity of pain. That I'd someday morph into a wise elder who could detach a little from heartache, guided instead by a deeper inner knowing of the necessity of change and my small place in the bigger picture.
But in my forty-ninth year, all I knew for sure was that life is fragile and surrender is hard. That’s still true today.
In the briefest breath of a second, everything can change. In any given direction.
When it comes to who we love, regardless of our age or theirs, decades bend into days. At the end of it all we only really remember how we felt during our shared time together, not the detail of what we did.
What Knowing the Lie Actually Gives Me
Recognizing the Lie of Later doesn't cushion me from grief. It doesn't make heartache hurt less.
But it does bring me back to now.
When I catch myself imagining a future version of myself who'll be better equipped to handle loss, I can stop and ask: What if this moment is all I get? What if there is no perfectly prepared future self?
That question doesn't alter the future. But it anchors me in the present.
I'll never be fully ready to say goodbye to anyone I love. I'll never be quite prepared to see someone I care about struggle or suffer. But recognizing the Lie of Later means I don't waste time waiting to feel ready.
I'm still learning this. Still failing at it sometimes. But I'm trying to show up for my life as it actually is. Messy, fragile, and unfinished. Knowing that someday my own life will be a handful of memories in someone else's. And hoping I made some of those memories worth keeping.
If you enjoyed this post you’ll probably like The Sunday Six. It’s a weekly share of six things to offer you sanctuary and support every Sunday. From personal essays to meditations, it will help you feel less alone as you move through midlife.