The Time (nearly) Every Man Faces

Personal

Posted on March 7, 2012 by Blake Leath

Yesterday, I received an email from a dear friend (we grew up together). He is also a periodic client, and most certainly a phenomenal advocate and co-strategist every now and again.

Here's the email, more or less in its raw, original form—

 

Blake,

At our lunch the other day, you made a comment that I've been chasing around in my head ever since. Needed to shoot this to you because it keeps popping into my mind.

You said, in passing, something to the effect of, "I realize I'm 42 and will never be the next Tom Peters...and I'm okay with that."

I think this statement, off-handed as it was, could be the basis of something that resonates with lots of us.

I think there are scores of men out there in our age bracket who wrestle with the exact same issue. In our 20's, we're so aggressive! In our 30's, we're still charging hard. But in our 40's, I think the vast majority of us—no matter how successful, no matter how driven—start to hear this little voice in the back of our head that seems to say, "...just...can't...reach..."

Whether it's guys like you, who do great work but come to believe you'll never be Tom Peters, or guys who realize they won't be the next CEO, the next SVP or the next internet billionaire—I think men in their 40's need a 'recharge' strategy.

The solution would help them "be okay with that" and put into place an action plan to stay inspired, challenged and engaged, but with a different focus.

Please think on it, would 'ya?

I'd love to attend.

—John

 

From the get-go, I must admit that the epiphany did not begin with my friend, nor me. It is as timeless as any conversation about mid-life and has been written about extensively, and well, by men like Richard Leider, Steve Buchholz, Bob Buford.

 

Interestingly, this thought began to take root in my own mind just several weeks ago as I had lunch with a client who leads a 130-person organization when he revealed, "I thought we'd be at 1,300 by now, Blake." He went on to say, "I know I'm younger than you but, am I too young to be having a mid-life crisis?"

 

I don't think so; I've heard similar lamentations from men of all ages—and I think in our millisecond-mentality culture, it will only get worse. (Mark Zuckerberg isn't helping any, by the way.)

 

For similar economic reasons, Japan had its "lost decade" and "lost generation." Many "salarymen" lost a decade-plus of prime earning years and upward economic mobility.

 

Fortunately, our modest business continues to grow and thrive; four of our best years ever have occurred most recently. But at 42, there's not nearly as much oxygen left in the tank as there was at 22 or 32. When I look to the future, I see a rapidly shortening runway and fewer and fewer green fields. And, as an entrepreneur, there are always several additional layers of expectation, stress and, dare I say, burden. After all, there are very few 'secondary boosters,' should the main one peter out.

 

For years, I was surrounded by men who not only wanted to create more content, more delivery-modalities (workbooks, then books, then DVDs, then online/self-paced modules, then assessments, and now apps), more distributors and more conferences, but also a 'campus' or 'compound' where our 'teams could teem.' At 22 it sounded awesome and easy. At 32 it sounded necessary and probable. At 42, I wish them luck and thank the good Lord above for my simple life.

 

This is similar, I would say, to our home.

When my wife and I were young, we longed for property, space and room to grow.

Once we had acreage, every spring meant it was "weed pulling time." And landscaper bills, pool maintenance bills, water-well repair bills, pest-control bills.

Suffice to say, we unloaded that property and moved into something much cozier.

Truth be told, our next move should be to a kitchen adjoined by just three doors: one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom, and one to the garage.

Easy-peasy.

 

As a Type-A personality, one might find this new way of thinking about 'accomplishment' and 'success' inscrutable. Or insulting (because it sounds lazy or shiftless).

That's fine. I understand. Been there, thought that.

But in the words of the inimitable Mark Twain, "If both of us agree, one of us is unnecessary."

 

As I get older, the river water has worn some of my sharper edges off and, if we're all honest with ourselves, it's probably served to simply wear us down a bit, too.

I don't think one can live an entire life of resisting Nature's forces without admitting that gravity makes us shorter, wind makes us lean, and water makes us heavy.

 

A more aikidoist way of looking at it, I propose, is to re-evaluate and re-channel.

 

I do not think, at all, that it is a sign of failure to accept that one will likely never be an internet billionaire, the next Steve Jobs or Jimi Hendrix. (Stray thought: I wonder the extent to which children’s sports—in which there is no score, no winner, no loser—reinforces the notion that each and every one of us will one day play in the big leagues.)

 

Anyhoo, I do not think that acceptance is failure. I think it's a sign of wisdom and maturity, not resignation.

 

Along that line, I once taught a class, several years ago, in which I explored people's unique talents. A woman approached me at lunch and shared a small desk-poster with lots of penguins on it. She was a bitter pill, to be sure, when she shrieked, "You think we're unique, do 'ya? We're lemmings. Lemmings!"

 

Uh, okay, well, let's just agree to disagree on that one.

 

Related to her frustration and animosity, however, was something I've been rolling around in my own mind.

We've all heard the promise about being "unique as snowflakes."

You know, as I get older and (reinforced by the internet and all manner of social media), it appears that there are, in fact, a slew of people out there just like me. (Twitter's algorithms show me scores of folks, each and every night, who are.)

Are we special? Sure.

Are we unique? Sure.

But we are also very similar.

And, rather than being a Tom Peters-shaped snowflake, I believe I aspire, instead, to be a really purposeful cell...or building block...or strand or, dare I say it, "cog in a machine that serves a purpose greater than myself."

(This is probably too Borg-ian, but you get the idea. It's less about a fairy-tale, and more about embracing the promise of purpose, which is irrefutable and undeniable.)

 

The other night, I took another great friend to dinner, just the two of us.

He's a supremely well-educated philosopher, theologian and historian. If I shared his name, you would recognize it.

I recounted the conversation I'd had with John (well before receiving John's email and knowing I'd tapped a vein).

Clearly, my dinner-mate was dumbstruck.

"Are you kidding me, Blake? You're only 42. Man, you are at the beginning of your prime! With the exception, possibly, of prodigies, mathematicians or artists, ages 42-47 are generally the most prolific professional years men have."

He proceeded to brow-beat me a bit but, eventually, he framed it up well in a way that I liked:

"I see a big difference between contentment and satisfaction. I mean, I'm only a few years older than you are, but I'm at peace. I've very content with my life. And I've never been happier. But, that said, things have never really 'coalesced' quite like I would have liked. I can always do more, be more, achieve more, contribute more. So, while I'm content—I would say that I am never satisfied."

 

These exchanges with friends, thought-leaders and clients have helped me a great deal, but my journey with age and mortality have, God willing, only begun.

Sure, I might very well die tomorrow. Or tonight. Or now.

Or, I might live another forty years.

Who's to say?

 

But as I consider men older than myself, particularly men in their 50's-60’s who are potentially staring their last significant professional decade in the eyes, I will judge them more kindly, if at all. I work with so many and for two decades I wondered, "Why do they appear to have given up?  Why do they seem to coast?  Why don't they rally more?  Where's the fire in their belly?"

 

Part of the answer lies, I believe, in their realizing, accepting or even embracing that they will not be the next CEO. Or ever be a CEO.

 

And this is a very difficult transition for most to make, particularly those who felt destined to or who took all the crappy sideroads and thankless assignments their career had to offer in hopes of readying themselves for singular greatness.

 

But you know what?

Recalibrating one's expectations needn't be a sign of failure, an admission of inadequacy, or a white flag raised in defeat.

It can be, instead, a cold shower that wakes us up and inspires us—regardless—to build a life of connection, contribution, purpose and meaning.

 

After all, the things I wanted when I was young are rarely the things I want now.

And what once seemed inevitable or even necessary now sounds rather burdensome.

 

You might feel differently but, you know what?  I'm okay with that.