Folktale Winery/Carmel Valley, CA/March 2026

At 50, I thought I knew a lot. My plan was to age like fine wine.

I had lived through enough by then—love, loss, reinvention, disappointment, joy. I had weathered things I once thought would break me. I believed that counted as wisdom.

And it did. Just not the kind I imagined.

What I didn’t know at 50 is how much more life was going to ask of me—and how much more it was going to give.

I didn’t know that letting go would become a central skill. Letting go of people I thought would always be there. Letting go of versions of myself that no longer fit. Letting go of needing answers, closure, or fairness.

I didn’t know that some questions never resolve neatly—and that peace comes anyway.

I didn’t know that some loves do last a lifetime. I didn’t believe it.

I didn’t know that compromise was usually ok and sometimes the very best course of action. Even when I thought I’d rather do something else.

I didn’t know how much lighter life would feel once I stopped taking everything so personally. Other people’s behavior? So often about them, not me. That realization alone could have saved me years of unnecessary hurt.

I didn’t know that friendships would become both more precious and more selective. That I would crave depth over history, if I had to choose. That I would finally understand the difference between people who show up and people who just say they will.

I didn’t know how the losses would pile up and that I should celebrate every moment with those I love. And I do mean celebrate. Every single moment.

I didn’t know how much courage it takes to stay open. To keep loving, keep trusting, keep risking connection after you’ve been disappointed. And yet, that openness is where all the meaning still lives. Boy, does it.

I didn’t know that my body would become both a battleground and a miracle. That I would learn to respect it in a way I never had before—not for how it looks, but for how it endures. And I didn’t know how it would degenerate.

I didn’t know how much freedom there is in caring less about what others think. Not in a rebellious way, but in a peaceful, grounded way. A quiet understanding that your life is yours, and that’s enough.

And I didn’t know this, either:
that there is still so much becoming left to do.

At 50, I thought I was arriving.

But I was still unfolding.

If I could go back and tell myself anything, it wouldn’t be advice so much as reassurance:

You’re not behind.
You’re not missing it.
You’re not done.

You’re just at the part where things start to get real.

How about you? What do you wish you’d known at 50? Or are you not yet there?