I’ve reached the stage in life where reality starts to truly sink in. Some people have called your 30’s the “quarter-life crisis,” and that seems rather apt. I’m not sure it happens at the same time for everyone, and it waited until almost the end of that decade for me. There comes a time when that magical feeling of possibility and future dreams run smack into the wall of reality – realizing your own mortality and the limits of your ability – and you watch your dreams die.
Not all of your dreams die, necessarily. But a lot of the big ones, the grander ones, the ones that got you through your teens and early 20’s – they seem to. Perhaps this is more true for millennials, having been told as children that “if you put your mind to it, you can do anything.” It is not the worst thing to tell a child by a longshot – I would rather have reached for the stars and fallen short, than aim for the ground and hit my mark – but there is a time of realization that most of us are not destined for the stars.
There is a grieving process to go through, but there is also a hope: once you get past the grief, you begin to realize that your dreams were probably a lot more shallow than the things you can accomplish. Perhaps even better, after a while you start realizing that the people you used to look up to have failed to accomplish those very things left to you to succeed in.
I spent years looking up to Steve Jobs. As a software developer and amateur engineer, I always admired his ability to see through the noise, and find the essential elements of what created a truly great product. The type of product that defines a category. He did it multiple times before dying – the Mac, the iPod, the iPhone, and the iPad. He achieved what every nerd dreams of: inventing something that causes people to experience awe. I used to call it the “Oooo” moment – the sound I made the first time I saw an iPad.
I still admire Steve’s material accomplishments. But in many ways, I have outgrown him. I, a weirdo in a normal 9-5 type job, have done something Steve never did. I have a happy marriage. I have a loving relationship with my parents. I stay in touch with my brother. People are not afraid to ask me for help, or act foolish in front of me.
The pursuit of achievement often leads people to abandon those closest to them. To become someone far from who they were. It alienates the people we want to be closest to. When Steve died, he didn’t have a relationship with his own daughter.
At some point, everyone has to make a choice. There are only so many hours in a day, and so many days in a life. We have to choose how to spend them. Like any finite resource, it feels like we should invest them wisely.
My products will not come to my funeral. They won’t accompany me into the afterlife. Neither will my job, or my salary. The cool code I write, that I am so proud of now, will be replaced in a matter of years (or even months these days). These accomplishments are entirely ephemeral – they will literally be dust in a moment on the scale of cosmic time. Those accomplishments will die with me. We have only to look at the state of Apple, only a few years after the death of Steve, to see that type of legacy is built on sand.
If I died today, people would attend my funeral. My wife, my parents, my brother, and the rest of my family. Some of my coworkers whom I have learned to love and become friends with might come. People whom I have helped in some small way might remember me. My wife being happy and healthy will help her do more, and make a difference to more people, and those people may do the same. Those closest to me will follow me into eternity.
We lose our youthful dreams, but we gain better, more accomplishable ones, ones that live longer and make a bigger difference. We can make a difference that lasts as long as a phone, or a car, or a computer – or we can make one that lasts the lifetimes of many people. It’s an investment in the people we love. It’s the best type of investment, because the payoff is in the giving, so the payoff is guaranteed.
I used to hope to be great and accomplish amazing things. Now I hope to be remembered as a loving husband, a good son, a brother that can be counted on, and a coworker that is always ready to help. I’ll fail at this countless times, but unlike many material investments, the interest earned during the good times may grant me another chance.
I wish I could write a letter to my younger self, and persuade him to invest sooner.
As we grow older, some dreams die. Instead of grieving too long, take the challenge to dream of some better ones.