I‘ve come to terms with the fact that we all die dissatisfied with our lives. There are of course things we’re proud of, accomplishments, children, our perfected apple pie recipe, but chances are good that when we die, we’re still not going to feel finished. I don’t think we’re ever fully satisfied with absolutely everything in our lives.
We still worry, say, about the child or granddaughter who still hasn’t found her way in the world, or about our legacy or our finances. Our back fat or sagging skin. How drawn our face is, how it doesn’t reflect how we feel inside. Rather than fight that dissatisfaction, I’m learning to wear it a bit more loosely. Why should I spend my time struggling for a sense of complete satisfaction, when in truth, satisfaction is a pitstop. It’s a temporary destination with a built in “exhale.” Look at the ground you’ve covered, then hit the road again in search of more… more experiences, more adventures, more memories and more growth.
It’s exhilarating, actually, this ability to accept that when you die, you won’t be fully satisfied. You’ll maybe wish for more time, or less pain, wondering if you’ve said everything that needs to be said, and did you say it in a way that will linger and penetrate?
Knowing that I’ll eventually feel dissatisfied, I’ve decided to stop expecting satisfaction to arrive. Instead, I celebrate what feels good and acknowledge what doesn’t, without judging it. It is what it is.