How to Find Joy Again After 50

A few years ago, I lost my job.

And along with it, I lost a part of my identity.

For years, I had been all about my career. I developed it, nurtured it and, looking back, probably made it more important than it really was.

Suddenly, the days stretched out in front of me.

What am I going to do? How will I fare? What happens now?

I remember looking outside one day and realizing that absolutely nothing had changed.

The wind was still blowing. The birds were still flying. The world was carrying on quite nicely.

My world was fine too.

But something was missing.

That Strange Little Ache

It wasn't really the job.

It wasn't the empty nest.

It wasn't even the fact that sometimes I felt lonely.

It was just this strange little ache.

Have you ever felt it?

Nothing is terribly wrong. You have things to be grateful for. You might even tell yourself that you should be happy.

And yet something feels...off.

I sat with that feeling for a while, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong.

Then I did what seemed perfectly reasonable.

I put on my favourite coat, found a fantastic pair of shoes and headed to the shopping mall.

Perhaps I just needed a little shopping therapy.

I wandered around for hours. I looked at this and that, tried things on and eventually came home carrying a bag filled with things I really didn't need.

I put the bag down.

And there it was.

The ache.

Apparently, it hadn't gone shopping with me.

Maybe I Needed Something to Do

So I decided to update my kitchen.

Now that felt purposeful.

I wasn't going to tear the whole thing apart or spend a fortune. I bought some paint, changed the cupboard handles and worked on a few little things that would make the room feel fresh again.

For about ten days, I had a project.

I woke up knowing what I was going to do.

I made decisions. I worked with my hands. I stood back and admired what I'd accomplished. I looked forward to the next little part.

And somewhere between the paint and the new cupboard handles, something occurred to me.

Purpose.

That was what I had been missing.

Perhaps Joy Isn't Something We Find

I'd spent so many years having purpose built into my life that I hadn't realized how much I depended on it.

Work needed me.

My family needed me.

There were problems to solve, places to be, people counting on me and things that had to get done.

Then life changed.

And although I had gained something wonderful—time—I hadn't yet figured out what I wanted to do with it.

The kitchen project gave me a glimpse of the answer.

Having something meaningful to do gave me a reason to look forward to tomorrow.

And that gave me joy.

Not the enormous, jump-up-and-down kind of joy we sometimes think we're supposed to be searching for.

Just a quiet feeling of:

I'm glad I'm doing this.

I Started Looking Outward

When the kitchen was finished, I knew I needed more than another renovation project.

So I started writing books about things I loved.

I knitted blankets for the children's ward at the hospital.

I gave more of my time to people around me who needed it.

And slowly, I stopped asking myself quite so often:

What will make me happy?

Instead, I began asking:

What can I do today that matters to me?

Sometimes that meant creating something.

Sometimes it meant helping someone.

Sometimes it meant nurturing an idea.

Sometimes it was simply being available to a person who needed my time.

My world became less about constantly looking inward for the thing that was missing and more about looking outward.

How can I help?

What can I create?

Who could use a little kindness?

What can I nurture?

What would make tomorrow interesting?

And that strange little ache began to quiet down.

Purpose Doesn't Have to Be Grand

I think we sometimes make the word purpose far too important.

We imagine we're supposed to discover some enormous calling that will define the second half of our lives.

I don't think that's true anymore.

Purpose can be painting the kitchen.

It can be growing tomatoes.

Learning to watercolour.

Knitting a blanket for a child you've never met.

Writing down your family recipes.

Helping at the local food bank.

Calling someone who lives alone.

Taking up the hobby you've been talking about for twenty years.

Writing a book.

Planting flowers where you'll see them from the kitchen window.

Purpose doesn't need an audience.

It doesn't need to make money.

And it certainly doesn't have to impress anyone.

It just needs to matter to you.

Four Gentle Questions to Find Your Purpose

If you're not sure where to start, sit down with a cup of tea and a notebook and answer these. Don't think too hard. The first answer is usually the honest one.

1. What do people already ask you for help with? Your pastry, your patience, your way with numbers or with crying babies. That's a gift someone needs.
2. What have you been saying "someday" about for years? Someday might be now.
3. What could you finish in about ten days? My kitchen took ten days. A small project with an end in sight gives your days a shape again.
4. Who would be glad to hear from you this week? Purpose is very often a person.

If You've Lost Your Job or Just Retired

It's normal to miss far more than the pay. Work gives us a reason to get dressed, people who count on us and the feeling of a job well done. When it's gone, it's worth deliberately putting a little of that back.

Each week, try to have one thing to make, one person to help or call, and one thing to learn. It sounds almost too simple, but it gives tomorrow a reason, and that is what the ache is asking for.

If Something Feels Missing

If your life is basically fine but you have that little ache too, perhaps you don't need to fix yourself.

Maybe you don't need a new wardrobe, a dramatic reinvention or a completely different life.

And perhaps you don't even need to go searching for happiness.

Try asking yourself a different question:

What would give tomorrow a little purpose?

Start very small.

Find something to create.

Something to learn.

Someone to help.

Something to nurture.

Something that makes you curious enough to get up tomorrow and continue.

Because I've discovered that joy doesn't always arrive with fireworks.

Sometimes it sneaks in while you're holding a paintbrush.

Sometimes it's wrapped inside a blanket you're making for someone else.

Sometimes it's sitting quietly beside you while you're doing something that matters.

And perhaps that little ache isn't telling us that something is wrong with our lives at all.

Perhaps it's simply asking:

What's next?

— The Dancing Sage