Fifty is not such a big number, at least when talking about dollars or books or even sit-ups. But in terms of years in a lifetime, it takes on greater significance. At fifty, typically careers are established, families are nearly grown. As women of midlife, we can reflect with wisdom on our accomplishments and relationships. We mentor, we laugh, and we appreciate our lives with a new vigor.

Or so we hope.

Counting backwards, fifty takes on a new look. Fifty, in a lifetime, is most likely more than half. It is the realization that mid-life is actually in the rearview, along with the proverbial “hill.” Fifty hit me hard, and now suddenly I’ve raced through nearly another decade.

Fifty brought a time of loss for me. It started in seemingly small ways, in the creak of my knees and the ache in my shoulder.

Who thought about rotator cuff tears? Who could imagine the impact of surgery, loss of mobility, and rehabilitation? How does someone like me end up in chronic pain?

Preparing my first-born for college? Exciting, the opening of new doors and adventures for this child of my soul. And yet, the reality of this same child leaving my embrace and her childhood bedroom was my homesickness and transformation. Motherhood changed, with one away and one not far behind, but the loss was a living thing in my heart. How could I let go?

All the while, I had slowly become my mother’s caretaker. Taking on her finances and business dealings hurtled into managing her personal care, before those final days of total dependence. Though I lost my mom slowly over 10 years, the end was stunning, dealing a gut-wrenching blow for which I was unprepared. And I had to call that college freshman of two weeks and bring her home for a funeral.

Job? Career of 30+ years, collateral damage of corporate transformation. It brought the loss of personal satisfaction, security, and most hurtful, relationships that I thought were above the politics and pettiness of organizational dysfunction.

I began to wonder what happened to the person I expected to be. This was not how I pictured 50. (Okay, truth be told, I never actually pictured 50, because it seemed so far away.)

And after my personal pity party, I could still recognize that my life is blessed, fulfilled in many ways, and these losses are truly first- world concerns. But they have been mine. In that reflection, I also realized that each loss brought a gift.

Acknowledging my physical decline did not come easily. I was in my prime, for fuck’s sake! I had never been an athlete or a risk-taker, so how is it that I continue to lose my ability to lift my arms, to sit comfortably, to tilt my head forward to read a book? I still don’t have answers and no longer remember what pain-free feels like, though I imagine the bliss. Yet through the experience, I have made friends who brought new perspectives and learning to my life. Caregivers who have inspired me, who have not only cared for me but also given me hope and helped me face a new reality. Others whose backs and limbs are bowed with pain, who share their experiences, their doctors’ names, the side effects of their meds and treatments. I read the chronic pain blogs and am grateful that I can still get out of bed without narcotics. I have gained compassion and appreciation for those who have suffered greater injury to heart and body.

My child blooms into adulthood with growing maturity and awareness. For losing her daily presence, I have gained new insight to this funny, intelligent young woman who shares my love of books, music, and office supplies. Her consciousness is raised to the plights of others, the privileges of her life and her responsibility to make her own life. Technology allows more frequent communication than my parents enjoyed when I left home. I am grateful I have raised a child who is able to leave the nest. Reflecting on this now, my second has also left the nest. More about that another time.

My own mother slipped away by degrees, starting with chronic depression and melting into the other worldliness that is dementia. Again, though, it was caregivers who showed me the way. Caregivers like the activity coordinator who made sure each resident won Bingo every so often, the dining room aide who urged a few more bites, the aide who sang hymns and read bible verses, the hospital nurse who tenderly rubbed her back and cooed soothingly, then talked to me deep in the night about letting go of our parents, the hospice team that modeled grace. Through her illness, my mom taught me to take pleasure in each day, each event as it unfolded, and that quality of life is what we make it – every day.

My reality warped again, when I saw the career to which I had devoted my energy and years also slipping away. I was good at my job, good at mentoring younger professionals and building teams. Yet slowly but surely, I felt the undertow that would lead to drowning. I saw corporate visions I could not believe in. Eventually, I realized it was easier to go with it. And after the sudden sense of drowning came the relief of breath. Fresh air and ideas and time.  Perspective and wisdom. A new beginning. Opportunities have appeared when I least expected them, and I have found validation in work that speaks to my heart. I can better take care of my physical self, relieving the pain with less stress and more rest. Best, I have built new friendships, while having time to nurture the old ones.

Change is just change. Different, but not necessarily wrong. A friend recently reminded me that it’s not about mourning the losses but about embracing the outcomes. So instead of my year of loss, I now think of my 50’s as my time of reinvention. Still reinventing and bringing on 60, faster than I want to admit.