When I was younger, about 6, I was convinced that I was going to die at 32. It made perfect sense to me at 6 years of age.
In elementary school, I felt like I was gifted without really trying. I was a straight-A student without studying. I was the annoying kid who always had his hand in the air to answer every question. I still vividly remember a day near the end of the year when most of the parents came to school to chaperone and they held a track and field day. I remember winning a lot of the events, including the footrace.
From grades 1-3, these are seemingly the only things that matter. At least that’s how I remember it. I was at the top of the class athletically and academically. To my young brain, I was so incredibly lucky to have that-so I would have to be unlucky in some other way.
Clearly, I was going to die young. 32 seemed like a fair age, which made thinking about the long term seemingly pointless. If I was dying young, who cares what I ate, what debt I put myself into, or what bad habits I would pick up? It wasn’t something that I dwelled about too much, but I did internalize it as I matured and settled into habits.
Now, it’s all so silly to me. While smarts and speed are great to have, there is so much more to life. (And so many other issues I dealt with.) I was a very awkward kid (and still am in many ways). I dealt with a whole lot of depression and undiagnosed ADHD-and all the issues that stem from those. Growing up, we certainly had money problems. I have lived far from the ideal life, although I am happy where I am right now.
I am still lucky in uncountable ways, but I am not perfect like 6-year-old me may have thought. I’ll be 35 this year, so the rumors of my 32-year-old death have certainly been exaggerated. But I’m still dealing with some of the short-sighted decisions and habits I’ve spent a lifetime developing.
Tom Tracey 