Alanis Morissette’s “Jagged Little Pill” was one of the most impactful albums of my youth. Maybe because the angst was so relatable to me even though it came out when I was in high school. You see young as I was, I had the ill fortune of a life meant for an adult. I won’t go into details. Let’s just say I understood a lot of things that kids my age didn’t.

One song in particular comes back to me. My understanding of “Hand In My Pocket” used to be very simplistic. At the time, I was more drawn to the traumatic themes of the other songs in the album. As a result, my fifteen-year old self disregarded the rest of the lyrics and got stuck on the image of one hand in my pocket. I took that as a lesson to just chill and this contributed to my complacency about pursuing possibilities in life. I adopted an extremist view of que sera, sera.

About two months ago, I broke my ankle and sank into depression because I felt useless. I was a burden. After several weeks, my cast was removed and I started therapy. And then I had the flu. I hated every moment of it. I felt like a dying hag. And a burden.

But then something happened when I recovered. I woke up one day feeling a sudden urge to do the things I always wanted to do but never had the time, energy, or the will to pursue. I felt motivated, energized, excited. I think this is what they call bucket list awakening. Or maybe it’s just perimenopause hormones. Whatever it is, it’s good isn’t it?

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. The regret of not having done these things sooner. The fear of running out of time. The dread of the future. I feel like I’m going at full speed and running out of runway. I might crash before I can take off. I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed, which brings us to this point.

I used to write. I wasn’t particularly remarkable but I was a decent writer. And now I think I have forgotten how to do it. But here we are. I need to do it for myself. To sort things out. Writing helps me focus and get my thoughts together.

I am in the autumn of my life. I am surrounded by my dead albeit colorful dreams lying on the ground. The leaves have fallen from the tree but is it really too late? I refuse to accept that it is. I’m lost but I’m hopeful. What will I do next? How will I do it? Can I still do it? Alanis was right. No one’s really got it figured out just yet.

Still, I can’t ignore the fire in the leaves. I might just let it consume me. And so I’ve decided to switch things up. I’m chickenshit but I’m brave. It starts with me writing again. I am writing about finally doing the things I want to do, one at a time. About figuring out what my dreams even are and then bringing them to life. About awareness, awe, and audacity.

I am writing about my midlife crisis, err chrysalis.

Everything is just fine, fine, fine.