Eras of Your Life

Being present is something most people struggle with. Live in the moment. Be where your feet are. They're admirable ideas, and I've always tried to get better at them with middling results.

What I've learned is that it's impossible for me to be "on" all the time—and that's okay.

Instead, I've started looking for the eras of my life.

That realization came from a couple of Kenny Chesney songs.

Don't Blink tells the story of an old man reminding us how quickly life passes. Listening to it got me wondering what I'd look back on if I lived to be 100. That thought led me to Keg in the Closet, a song about looking back on a season of life that could never be recreated.

Having grown up in a college town, that one always hit close to home. It reminded me that there are certain periods of life that only exist because of the people, the timing, and the circumstances. Once they're over, they're over.

Most people hear those songs and think, I need to live in the moment. I heard something different. What an era. That was the moment everything clicked.

Maybe the goal isn't to squeeze every ounce out of every single day. You'll always wish you appreciated certain moments more. Maybe the real goal is to recognize when you're living through an era you'll someday miss—and pour yourself into it while it's still here.

Life is busy. There are probably several eras happening at once. Some are exciting. Some are ordinary. Some are difficult. The trick, at least for me, is identifying the ones that are temporary.

One I've identified is camp. I write about camp a lot, and I've finally figured out why. It won't last. Will I love the outdoors for the rest of my life? I hope so. But will I spend every fall making memories with this exact group of guys? Probably not. Forty years from now, some of the men around that campfire will be gone. Realistically, this chapter may only last another decade.

That's a little depressing to think about. But it's also freeing. Once you realize something won't last forever, you stop treating it like it always will. Suddenly, taking an extra vacation day doesn't feel irresponsible. Staying an extra night around the fire doesn't feel like a waste of time. You start showing up differently.

Another era I'm trying not to take for granted is harder to define. I'd call it the season of freedom.

I'm in my early thirties. I'm in a great relationship. We don't have kids, and we live in an apartment with enough flexibility that, outside of work, we can usually decide what we want to do.

If I want to play 36 holes of golf this weekend, I can. If I want to disappear into the mountains to fish somewhere without cell service, I can. If we decide on Thursday that we want to spend a long weekend in Florida, it's possible. For a long time, I struggled to justify spending money on experiences. Then I realized something. This season of life won't last forever either.

Someday there may a mortgage, aging parents, or responsibilities I can't even imagine yet. None of those things are bad—but they'll change what life looks like. Recognizing that doesn't make me sad. It makes me grateful. In fact, writing this has made me realize it's been too long since the last adventure.

Maybe that's the whole point.

Identifying the era gives you permission to fully participate in it. Take the extra day off. Say yes a little faster. Bring your A-game whenever you have the chance to be part of this chapter.

Because when you're 100 years old, you probably won't remember random Tuesdays. You'll remember the eras. So make this one worth missing.