When the Lifeboat Gets Quiet: Transition in Midlife and What Comes Next

A quieter lifeboat doesn’t mean the journey has ended. It’s just the beginning.

Photo by Mauro Sbicego @maurosbicego

Our lifeboat wasn’t perfect as we navigated through calm waters, windless lulls, blustering winds, and raging seas. It was where we were harnessed together, bound by one parent’s logical, disciplined mind, and the other’s soft, emotional, “keep us connected” determination.  

It used to be the place our young children inhabited, safe from the outside world.

It was where they gravitated to when knees were skinned from falling off their bikes or someone in the neighborhood said mean things to them.

It was where I held them even as young adults when life’s challenges rocked the boat just a bit too much.  

It was the spot they knew would have a fridge full of food when friends came aboard.

It was a busy lifeboat for a long time, filled with work, school, hockey games in the winter and soccer in the summer, basketball in between. We juggled life and weather, pointing our sails wherever we needed to go, changing course in an instant, raising the spinnaker when time and speed were of the essence.

And then our lifeboat became less busy.

It wasn’t a sudden change – a little here, a little there.

Driver’s licenses were passed, no need to pick them up – they’d hitch a ride with someone else. Curfews dwindled, after school jobs filled the space.

Friday’s movie and pizza night was replaced with parties and girls, noisy cars and the need for freedom.

It became a quieter lifeboat – four became two. No longer a bustling hub but a touchstone for moments of uncertainty, a place to heal from injury, a place to return to before embarking on another adventure.

In time, each of our boys and their partners created their own lifeboats, safe havens for their young children to return to when knees are skinned, harsh words are sent their way, and bellies need filling.

Their lifeboats are shaped a little differently than ours, crafted to fit a different time and place, shored up to face new challenges and demands.  

They must set their sails, navigating the seas and currents around them, changing course or staying the course as required, raising their jib when time and speed are of the essence.  

And before they too find their lifeboats quieter, there is time to return momentarily to our quiet lifeboat, happily disrupting the peace, helping themselves to a fridge that is full and a freezer that begs to be emptied.  

There is sill time for bags of tortilla chips dipped in hummus to be devoured; pancakes and waffles (with sprinkles, of course) to be made for breakfast after a sleepover or for lunch.

Time for family dinners, birthdays, holidays to be celebrated and there will always be time and space for love, laughter, healing and hugs.  

Finally, there is time, still, for our lifeboat to explore new destinations, sail into ports we’ve not been to before, or anchor in the bays we’re familiar with.

Our lifeboat hasn’t reached its final destination. It isn’t ready to be taken out of the water, put on stilts and covered over – not now. Not yet….   

***************

This piece is my own reflection but I’d love to know:

“What does your lifeboat look like today — and what is the open water ahead asking of you?”

Thanks for reading!

Joan