Finding peace in the second half of life

One of the books I have returned to over the years is Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. Although Rohr writes from a Christian contemplative perspective, I have always found that many of his ideas speak to something much broader than religion. They speak to the human journey—and particularly to what happens to us as we move into the second half of life.

As a psychotherapist, I find that particularly interesting.

Rohr suggests that life can be understood as having two broad movements. In the first half, we are largely concerned with building a life. We develop an identity, establish relationships, pursue education and careers, raise families, find our place in the world and hopefully develop a sense of security and belonging.

Perhaps this is one of the things I notice most often in my work with clients as they move through midlife and beyond. There can come a point when the things that once seemed so important no longer carry quite the same weight.

A career may change or come to an end. Children grow up and become independent. Parents die. Relationships evolve. Our bodies begin to remind us that we are not going to live forever. Goals that once motivated us may suddenly feel less compelling.

Sometimes people experience this as a crisis.

What am I doing with my life?

Is this all there is?

Who am I now?

What happens when I am no longer the person I used to be?

The second half of life involves integrating our experiences from the first half – leading to a greater understanding and awareness of the self.

Sometimes they are signs that something new is beginning.

This is where I find Rohr’s idea of “falling upward” so compelling.

The metaphor suggests that some of the experiences we interpret as falling—loss, disappointment, aging, failure, uncertainty, letting go—can actually become opportunities for psychological and spiritual growth.

But human beings have an extraordinary capacity to find meaning in what happens to us.

And sometimes the very things that disrupt our carefully constructed lives invite us to look beneath the construction.

Perhaps the person who has always been strong needs to learn how to be vulnerable.

Perhaps the person who has spent a lifetime taking care of everyone else needs to discover what it means to receive.

Perhaps someone who has defined themselves through achievement begins to wonder who they are when there is nothing left to prove.

This is where psychological growth can become less about becoming someone new and more about becoming more fully ourselves.

We begin to integrate parts of ourselves that we may have neglected.

We become more comfortable with uncertainty.

We become less interested in impressing other people.

We may even become willing to admit that some of the beliefs we carried for decades simply aren’t working anymore.

That can be uncomfortable.

The ego generally likes certainty. It likes labels and definitions. It likes knowing who we are and where we stand.

But maturity may involve developing the capacity to say:

I don’t know.

I’ve changed.

I was wrong.

I don’t need to have all the answers.

I can be both strong and vulnerable.

Perhaps this is one way of understanding Rohr’s “second half of life.” It isn’t necessarily about a particular age. It is more about a developmental shift—a movement from constructing our identity toward questioning, deepening and integrating it.

And I don’t think we have to wait until we are older to begin this process.

Sometimes a divorce starts it.

Sometimes the death of a parent.

Sometimes retirement.

Sometimes an illness.

Sometimes a career change.

Sometimes it is simply waking up one morning and realizing that the life we have carefully constructed no longer feels quite like our own.

Therapy can become a place where we explore that uncertainty without immediately trying to fix it.

Rather than asking, “How do I get back to the person I was?” we might begin asking, “Who am I becoming?”

I find that a much more interesting question.

There is also something reassuring about Rohr’s idea because it challenges our culture’s tendency to view aging primarily through the lens of decline. We certainly experience loss as we grow older. But aging can also bring something that is difficult to acquire when we are young: perspective.

We may become less impressed by appearances and more interested in authenticity.

Less concerned with winning and more interested in connection.

Less interested in certainty and more able to live with mystery.

Perhaps we begin to understand that a meaningful life isn’t necessarily the life that looks most successful from the outside.

t may be the life that feels most honest on the inside.

The goal of therapy isn’t always to help people become more successful, more productive or more confident. Sometimes the deeper work is helping someone let go of the belief that they have to be any of those things in order to be worthy.

Sometimes healing involves loosening our grip on the person we thought we were supposed to become.

And sometimes, when life knocks us off balance, the invitation isn’t to immediately stand back up.

Perhaps we can pause for a moment.

Notice where we are.

The second half of life doesn’t have to be a diminished version of the first.

It can be a different kind of life altogether—less about proving ourselves and more about knowing ourselves; less about acquiring and more about letting go; less about constructing an identity and more about becoming comfortable with the person who is underneath it.

Perhaps we spend the first half of life learning how to stand on our own.

And then, somewhere along the way, we discover that we don’t have to be quite so afraid of falling.