Midlife

Midlife Plot Summary

Introduction

There's something about turning forty that can feel like standing at the edge of a cliff. I remember the morning of my fortieth birthday, staring into the bathroom mirror and suddenly seeing my father's face looking back at me. When did those lines appear around my eyes? When did my hair start thinning at the temples? But the unsettling feeling wasn't just about physical changes—it was a deeper sense that time was suddenly accelerating, that life had reached a turning point without my permission. This middle phase of life brings its own distinct challenges and possibilities. The carefree optimism of youth has faded, replaced by a more complex awareness. We find ourselves asking profound questions: Is this all there is? Have I made the right choices? What will I do with the time I have left? The good news is that philosophers throughout history have grappled with these very questions. Through exploring concepts of happiness, meaning, mortality, and time, philosophy offers us practical wisdom for this pivotal stage. Rather than seeing midlife as a crisis to be survived, we can approach it as an opportunity for deeper understanding and authentic flourishing. The journey through these middle years can be not just endured but embraced as a time of renewed purpose and unexpected joy.

Chapter 1: The U-Curve: Understanding the Science of Midlife Satisfaction

At a cocktail party in Manhattan, David, a successful architect in his mid-forties, stands alone by the window, nursing his drink. Despite having achieved everything he once dreamed of—professional recognition, financial security, a loving family—he feels a persistent emptiness he can't explain. "I should be happy," he confides to a friend later that evening. "I've checked all the boxes. But lately, I feel... restless. Dissatisfied. Like I'm just going through the motions." His friend nods knowingly: "Classic midlife crisis, right?" But what David is experiencing isn't just a cultural cliché—it's backed by robust research. In 2008, economists David Blanchflower and Andrew Oswald published a groundbreaking study analyzing happiness data from 72 countries. They discovered a consistent U-shaped pattern in life satisfaction across cultures: happiness tends to decline gradually from early adulthood, reaching its lowest point in the mid-forties, before rising again in later years. Even great apes show a similar midlife dip in well-being, suggesting something deeply biological about this pattern. What explains this midlife trough? German economist Hannes Schwandt found that younger people tend to overestimate how satisfied they'll be in the future, while mid-lifers underestimate their happiness in old age. Middle age becomes worse than anticipated precisely as hopes for the future fade. Our expectations and reality painfully collide during these middle years. Yet the U-curve also offers hope. If midlife represents the bottom of the happiness curve, it means things naturally tend to improve from here. The research suggests that as we age beyond midlife, we develop better emotional regulation, become more accepting of our limitations, and find deeper satisfaction in meaningful relationships rather than status or achievement. The struggle isn't an anomaly—it's a transition point leading to potential renewal. Understanding this pattern can be liberating. Rather than seeing midlife dissatisfaction as personal failure or weakness, we can recognize it as a common human experience—one that carries the seeds of future contentment if we navigate it thoughtfully. The valley isn't the end of the journey but merely a passage to higher ground.

Chapter 2: Existential Value: Finding What Makes Life Worth Living

John Stuart Mill, one of history's most influential philosophers, suffered a profound depression at age twenty. Though young, his crisis mirrors what many face at midlife. Raised by his father to be an intellectual prodigy, Mill had mastered Greek by age three and studied Newton's Principia at eleven. His life was dedicated to social reform and utilitarian philosophy—working toward "the greatest happiness of the greatest number." Yet one day, he asked himself a devastating question: if all his reform goals were instantly achieved, would it bring him joy? His honest answer: "No!" Mill's breakdown lasted months. In his Autobiography, he describes the turning point: reading Wordsworth's poetry. What Mill discovered wasn't just pretty verses but a revelation about value itself. "What made Wordsworth's poems a medicine for my state of mind," he wrote, "was that they expressed states of feeling under the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the feelings, which I was in quest of." Through poetry, Mill realized there was "real, permanent happiness in tranquil contemplation" that had "no connection with struggle or imperfection." This insight helps us distinguish between two kinds of valuable activities. Some, like social reform or solving problems, have what we might call "ameliorative value"—they respond to suffering or fix what's broken. Others have what can be termed "existential value"—they make life positively good, not merely better than it could be. These include art, philosophy, games with friends, or appreciating nature—activities that would be worthwhile even in a perfect world. Mill's crisis reveals a common midlife trap: becoming so consumed by ameliorative tasks—bills to pay, problems to solve, fires to put out—that we lose sight of existential goods that make life worth living in the first place. The relentless cycle of necessity can leave us feeling that life is merely an endless struggle against difficulties. The philosophical remedy? Make room in your life for activities with existential value. These don't have to be grandiose pursuits—they might be as simple as truly listening to music, walking in nature, or genuine conversation with friends. What matters is that their value isn't merely in solving problems but in making life positively worthwhile. In midlife's demanding years, these activities aren't luxurious extras but essential sources of meaning that can transform our experience from mere survival to genuine flourishing.

Chapter 3: Missing Out: Embracing the Paths Not Taken

Sarah, a corporate lawyer in her mid-forties, sits alone in her office late at night. Outside her window, the city glitters. She's just won a major case, but instead of celebrating, she finds herself scrolling through the social media profile of an old college friend who pursued music instead of law. Her friend's life looks so free, so creative—touring with her band, recording albums, connecting with audiences. Sarah had once been torn between law and music herself. "What if I had chosen differently?" she wonders, feeling the weight of the road not taken. This feeling of missing out—of paths foreclosed and options narrowed—intensifies at midlife. We become acutely aware that certain doors have closed. The poet, doctor, or explorer we might have been now seems impossibly distant. Even when we've chosen well, there's a peculiar loss in narrowing down from infinite possibility to a single, concrete life. What explains this emotional response? Philosophers point to the incommensurability of values—the fact that different worthy pursuits can't be reduced to a single scale. Money is commensurable: a hundred dollars fully compensates for losing fifty. But life's most meaningful values don't work this way. The value of artistic creativity can't be converted into the value of professional achievement. Each has its distinct worth that can't be fully substituted or replaced. This incommensurability creates an inevitable sense of loss. Yet paradoxically, it also reflects something wonderful about human life—the rich diversity of worthy pursuits available to us. Only a drastic impoverishment of the world or our capacity to engage with it would eliminate this sense of missing out. There's a deeper insight here: the apparent freedom of youth, with all options still theoretically open, comes with its own costs. Not knowing what you will become entails not knowing who you are—a vertigo of identity that many would not wish to revisit. The nostalgia we feel for lost possibilities often overlooks the profound disorientation that accompanies unlimited choice. Rather than endlessly mourning paths not taken, we might instead recognize that missing out is the inevitable companion of a life rich in values. Our finite lives couldn't possibly encompass all worthy pursuits. The paths we've chosen may not be perfect, but they've given our lives shape, meaning, and a hard-won wisdom that no purely theoretical existence could provide.

Chapter 4: Retrospection: Coming to Terms with Past Mistakes

Rachel sits in a café, stirring her coffee absently while rain streams down the windows. Ten years ago, she left a promising career in academia to follow her husband across the country for his dream job. The marriage ended two years later, but by then her academic prospects had withered. "If I could do it all over again," she thinks, "I would never have left. That one decision changed everything." The weight of regret feels almost physical. How should we think about such pivotal moments? Philosopher Derek Parfit offers a thought-provoking perspective through a hypothetical scenario: Imagine you have a medical condition that would cause any child conceived in the next three months to have a painful but manageable disability. Doctors advise waiting. You ignore this advice and have a child who, despite some challenges, leads a good life overall. Looking back, was your decision wrong? Should you wish you had waited? The puzzle is this: your decision was clearly mistaken at the time, yet wishing it undone would erase the existence of the specific child you now love. Your attachment to this particular child—who would not exist had you chosen differently—gives you reason to embrace rather than regret your past mistake. This insight extends beyond parenthood. In philosopher Robert Adams' words, what we're attached to isn't just "bare metaphysical identity" but "projects, friendships, and important features of our personal history." Our meaningful relationships, creative works, and even the specific texture of our experiences depend on the exact path we've taken—mistakes and all. Consider another dimension: when we imagine having chosen differently, we typically picture the best possible outcome of that alternative path. But this overlooks uncertainty. Looking back at past decisions, we know exactly how things turned out—but alternative paths would have involved their own unknowable risks and disappointments. Even more profound is how our sense of who we are emerges from the particular history we've lived, including our errors. Our regrets often focus on abstract assessments—"I should have chosen differently"—while overlooking the rich particularity of the life we've actually experienced. As Virginia Woolf suggests in her diaries, reflecting on her childlessness alongside her literary accomplishments, specific works like Orlando might never have existed had her life taken a different turn. This doesn't mean we should never feel regret or acknowledge mistakes. Rather, it suggests a more nuanced retrospection that honors both the imperfection of our choices and the value that has emerged from the specific path we've walked. The philosophical remedy isn't to deny our mistakes but to see how they've become interwoven with what now gives our lives meaning.

Chapter 5: Mortality: Facing the Future with Clarity

At fifty-five, acclaimed writer Simone de Beauvoir confronted the reality of time's passage with characteristic honesty. In her autobiography, she wrote: "I can still see the hedge of hazel trees flurried by the wind and the promises with which I fed my beating heart while I stood gazing at the gold mine at my feet: a whole life to live. The promises have all been kept. And yet, turning an incredulous gaze toward that young and credulous girl, I realize with stupor how much I have been swindled." Beauvoir wasn't expressing disappointment with her achievements or choices. Rather, she was grappling with the fundamental human condition: "When one has an existentialist view of the world, like mine, the paradox of human life is precisely that one tries to be and, in the long run, merely exists." No matter how well we live, our experiences eventually fade into the past, and ultimately, we face extinction. This awareness intensifies in midlife. As philosopher Elliott Jaques noted, midlife brings "the central and crucial feature... the paradox of entering the prime of life, the stage of fulfillment, but at the same time the prime and fulfillment are dated. Death lies beyond." At forty or fifty, we know from experience what a decade means, and those remaining can be counted on one hand. Philosophers have long offered consolations for mortality. Epicurus famously argued that "death is nothing to us, since when we exist, death is not present; and when death is present, we do not exist." Later, Lucretius suggested we view death as a mirror of the time before our birth—if we don't lament not existing before, why fear not existing after? These arguments have their limitations. Death may not involve suffering, but it does involve deprivation—the permanent loss of life's goods. And there's an asymmetry between past and future nonexistence: we tend to be more concerned about future pleasures than past ones, making death seem worse than prenatal nonexistence. Perhaps a more productive philosophical approach comes from examining our attitudes toward immortality itself. Philosophers from Bernard Williams to Martha Nussbaum have argued that eternal life would not be the blessing it appears—it might lead to unbearable boredom or profound alienation from human concerns. Our mortality shapes what gives human life its urgency and meaning. What emerges from this philosophical exploration isn't a perfect solution to the fear of death, but a more nuanced understanding. Our aversion to mortality stems from multiple sources: the loss of future goods, yes, but also a more primitive attachment to our continued existence—the same attachment we feel toward those we love. Recognizing these distinct dimensions can help us develop a more balanced relationship with our finitude, one that acknowledges loss without being overwhelmed by it.

Chapter 6: Living in the Present: Beyond the Project-Driven Life

Michael, a university professor in his mid-forties, finds himself caught in a peculiar emptiness. He's just finished writing a book he's worked on for years, and instead of feeling triumphant, he's oddly deflated. "What now?" he wonders. Looking ahead, he sees only more projects—papers to write, courses to teach, committees to chair—each one eventually completed and left behind. Life feels like running on a treadmill, accumulating accomplishments that bring diminishing satisfaction. This sense of futility points to what philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer identified as a fundamental dilemma of human existence. Either we have goals we're pursuing, in which case we're defined by lack and incompleteness, or we achieve those goals and face emptiness and boredom. As Schopenhauer wrote: "The basis of all willing is need, lack, and hence pain... If, on the other hand, it lacks objects of willing... a fearful emptiness and boredom comes over it." The problem isn't with having goals but with how we relate to them. Many activities that structure our lives are what philosophers call "telic"—they aim at terminal states where they're finished. Writing a book, getting promoted, raising children to adulthood—these projects are completed and thus exhausted. Their being is, in philosopher Aryeh Kosman's words, "autosubversive, for its whole purpose and project is one of self-annihilation." The alternative lies in "atelic" activities—those that don't aim at a terminal state or point of exhaustion. Walking (not to get somewhere but for its own sake), spending time with friends, appreciating music, or thinking philosophically are atelic pursuits. Unlike projects, they're not exhausted by engagement but fully realized in the present moment. This distinction reveals a path through the midlife malaise: shift from a telic to an atelic orientation. Rather than finding meaning exclusively in completing projects, we can value the processes themselves. For Michael, this means valuing the activity of writing and thinking about philosophy, not just publishing books. For others, it might mean finding meaning in the process of parenting, not just raising successful adults, or in the practice of a profession, not just its achievements. This philosophical insight resonates with aspects of Buddhist mindfulness and meditation practices, which train attention to the present moment. Through meditation, we develop the capacity to notice and appreciate atelic activities that might otherwise be overshadowed by our goal-orientation. We learn to experience the richness of existence not as a series of accomplishments but as a continuous engagement with what matters. The challenge, of course, is emotional rather than intellectual. Knowing we should value the process doesn't automatically change our affective responses. Yet through practice—both philosophical reflection and mindful attention—we can gradually transform our relationship with the activities that fill our lives, finding fulfillment not just in their completion but in their unfolding presence.

Summary

The midlife passage, with its characteristic U-curve of satisfaction, offers us not just challenges but profound opportunities for philosophical growth. Through the stories and insights explored in these pages, we've seen how this pivotal life stage invites us to reconsider our relationships with time, choice, meaning, and mortality. The disorientation many feel at midlife isn't a sign of failure but an opening to deeper understanding. What practical wisdom can we take from this philosophical journey? First, make room in your life for activities with existential value—pursuits that aren't just about solving problems but about making life positively good. Second, recognize that missing out is an inevitable consequence of life's richness; our finite lives couldn't possibly encompass all worthy pursuits. Third, develop a more nuanced relationship with your past, one that acknowledges mistakes while honoring how they've become interwoven with what gives your life meaning. Finally, shift from a predominantly telic orientation toward an atelic one, finding fulfillment not just in achieving goals but in the activities themselves. Through these practices, the midlife passage can become not merely a crisis to endure but a transformation to embrace—a time when we learn, perhaps for the first time, how to be fully present to the depth and wonder of our finite human lives.

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Kieran Setiya

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