Being “Young” Again Is Not All That Appealing

Why would I trade a little detachment for another hair on my head?

I’ve never quite understood it when people say they want to go back to being a teenager again. Then something happened today that reminded me why I don’t.

I guess for some, those years hold memories of joy and adventure. For me, adolescence was confusing and often a crazy rollercoaster of emotions.

I wish I could say it got easy from there. Perhaps I had more freedom and relatively more control over my reactions in my twenties. But only in relation to the emotional volatility of childhood.

Each decade presents new lessons, growth, and hopefully more emotional self-control.

I’m forty-five and still young (“young” and “old” are relative terms that mean very little). Lessons and growth keep coming at me thick and fast, and it’s good to celebrate the wins while acknowledging the challenges.

Earlier today I got an aggressive email from a colleague who has a habit of firing off at people when things don’t go her way. She is easily triggered by the smallest thing.

Another colleague, who was cc’d on the email, called me immediately to gauge my reaction. He was surprised by my cool and detached response.

I would have been triggered by her email even as recently as two years ago. I would have taken it personally and reacted impulsively to her attacks.

Instead, I was able to see that she was having a moment and could honour that her emotional reactions were true and valid for her — even if they were poorly expressed.

My younger self (which still exists within me) wanted to immediately reply to defend myself and put her in her place, but I resisted the urge.

I gave it a couple of hours and called her instead. I acknowledged her feelings, but mostly let her talk.

She ended up self-acknowledging how she was triggered and her habit of flying off with the quickest reaction (she also sent me a text late Saturday night, which I ignored as a way of setting a boundary).

I was able to neutrally hold space for her reaction without making her wrong, but also clearly and calmly asked if there was a better way to handle situations requiring feedback.

When I got off the call, I was amazed at how I handled it. It was something I could never have done five years ago. In the past, I would have internalised the attack and lost sleep by stewing on it much longer than necessary.

I was proud of myself for having the courage to call her and being able to sit in an exchange with grace and the strength to show my own boundaries.

It is rare, but important, for me to acknowledge myself like this — privately or publicly. I have been working on myself for so long, trying to develop the skills in emotional resilience and empathic communication.

It has been a dedicated journey over more than a decade — a journey with more setbacks and clumsy moments than noticeable achievements.

And I’m not suggesting I made it to some final destination. Who knows, I may even revert to an emotive reaction over something tomorrow. It may simply be that I had great sleep last night and was sufficiently caffeinated.

This is the kind of thing that comes with age. I recall looking up to older colleagues in my twenties and thirties, wondering how they could respond to things so calmly while I was having a battle in my own head. And yes, there have been many times I shot off an email I later regretted.

I’m not sure if age brings wisdom so much as it does detachment. Today I was aware that her stuff isn’t my stuff, and I don’t need to make it mine.

I could get into the physiological-growth aspect— how we develop the neurological ability to better self-regulate as we get older. It seems like my prefrontal cortex is having a good day. But the joy is relational as much as biological.

Just as I looked up to older colleagues when I was younger, I now have a responsibility to help others I work with as a mentor and role model. More than 90% of our staff team is under the age of thirty.

There is something awesome about getting older. I wouldn’t trade an ounce of detachment for a single more hair on my head. (And there’s plenty of room on my head for more hair.)

And if this is what a good day feels like at forty-five, bring on ninety. Although I reserve the right to change my mind about that in the meantime.