Two Christmas Mornings at Sixty

Sometimes I picture two Christmas mornings at sixty. Both are imagined, built from what I feared my life could become and what I hope it will become. They’re a way of looking at the direction I was heading and the direction I’ve chosen since.

In the first picture, the house is quiet. I’m alone with a cup of coffee and a screen. There are people I could contact, but I’ve let some of those relationships grow thin. Reaching out feels awkward, so I put it off again. I turn toward the same private escape that has helped me postpone difficult feelings for years. I struggled with porn for about fifteen years. Another thirty would have made forty-five. In this imagined morning, I’m still asking it to help me get through the day.

I picture the rest of that life too. A career shaped by avoiding risks and accepting less than I wanted because I didn’t believe I deserved more. Earnings I hoped for never materialized. Debt and medical bills make decisions harder. Relationships never became as close or supportive as I needed, or a marriage carried pain I kept avoiding. Those are possibilities I feared, not things I can prove would have happened. The painful part of this picture is how many chances to build a different life I let pass while I kept finding ways to check out of the one I had.

The other Christmas morning is busy. In this picture, my wife and I are making room around the table for the children we hope to have and, perhaps by then, grandchildren. Someone needs another chair. There’s a conversation in the kitchen that I want to be part of. I leave my phone where it is and go join it. I imagine knowing these people well: what makes them laugh, what they’re excited about, and what they’ve been having a hard time with. I want to bring warmth into that room and have room for theirs.

I can’t promise myself that exact future. But some of the life I’m building is already here. Over the last couple of years, I’ve doubled my day-job income. That doesn’t include my work helping men with porn. I’ve deepened friendships, and I’ve noticed my memory improve. Those are changes I’ve experienced personally, not results I can promise anyone else. Quitting is part of my story; the work of building a life continues after it.

My wife and I have a deep, meaningful relationship. We talk openly, listen to each other’s thoughts and feelings, and treat each other with kindness. That communication is part of our active, good sex life too. I want to keep bringing that care into the years ahead. If we become parents, I hope our children will see adults who can face difficult things, ask for help, and stay available to the people they love.

Your future doesn’t have to look like mine. Try writing one short paragraph about an ordinary evening thirty years from now. Describe the people or activities you want in it and how you want to show up. Then choose one small action today that gives that future a little more room. Thirty years is hard to hold in your head. The next choice is close enough to work with.

John Wiggains
Founder of Mental Myst