THIS YEAR

My intention this year is simple: to be more deliberate with how I spend my time. To invest it in things that move me toward mastery in the areas I value, that bring fulfillment, and that offer some service to others—so I can contribute and feel connected to community. I don’t see that as selfish. I see it as a way of trying to live more in line with my values, and to show up as my best self for my family and the people around me.

I think many of us in a “third season” of life fall into predictable patterns. Work and family have taken up most of our time, rightfully. We’ve defined ourselves through those roles and routines. And somewhere along the way, it’s easy to lose sight of what actually fulfills us—what challenges we enjoy taking on for the sake of the work itself, and what kinds of effort we’re willing to stay with when it’s new and difficult and doesn’t reward us quickly.

In earlier generations, we often didn’t live long into this stage. We served our biological role, we served our economic and social role, and that was that. Now many of us find ourselves here with more years ahead, and with more complexity. It’s not surprising that accomplishment can start to stand in for fulfillment. It’s not surprising that status can become a substitute for meaning. Our culture rewards what can be measured and displayed. It doesn’t place much value on the quieter work.

The quieter work is what I’m interested in. I want to refine the activities that are fulfilling to me, and the ones I’m drawn to gaining real mastery in—not for status, but to become a steadier person. A person with more capacity. A person who can offer something to others, even if it’s small. Right now, many things in my life are out of my control, and I’m at a point where I rarely feel a deep sense of fulfillment. So I’m turning toward practice.

For me that practice is time moving in the mountains—running on trails, walking, trekking, sometimes skiing. I’m also drawn to designing, building, and repairing things—work that has a beginning, a middle, and an end, and that asks for attention. And I’m choosing regular writing as a discipline: a way to document this year, work through what I’m learning, and make a record of what it looks like to pursue a more deliberate life from inside it.

There are realities I can’t change by force of will. I can’t make my real estate business more lucrative this year in any dramatic way, not after thirteen years of diligent effort. I can’t force my son to suddenly become drawn to a path of study or work if he isn’t. I can’t force my partner to want to share the same activities if she doesn’t. I have responsibility in all of these areas, and I’ll continue to take it seriously, but I’m also trying to accept that much of the outcome is out of my hands, as it is with so much in life.

What I can do is decide how I use the time I have. I believe it matters that I use it intentionally—not only to reinvent my professional life (which I may need to do), and not only to accept and adapt to the new phase of relationship with my wife and son, but to do daily work that is fulfilling. Work that builds some kind of mastery. Work that might be of service, even if the service is indirect, or small, or never recognized.

I think we need people in their third season to remain vital and curious, active and honest, willing to share experience and whatever wisdom came with it—if asked—while continuing to do what is meaningful. I also know this can sound like a luxury, and in some ways it is. We all have different capacities at different times. Still, I believe this kind of work is more attainable than most people assume, because it isn’t about chasing passion or happiness or another form of achievement.

It’s about fulfillment as a daily practice. About doing something you can return to. Something that asks for your attention. Something that leaves you more whole. Maybe that’s painting in the small hours you have, not because it will turn into anything, but because the act of doing it changes something in you. Maybe it eventually serves someone else. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the service is simply that you return to your life more present, and more worth being around.

And maybe I’m wrong, and this is just my way of spending hours trundling around trails and mountains, repairing old houses, and writing my way through it. But even that feels like a better use of time than drifting. If I’m going to have this season, I want to be awake inside it.