A Journey to Self: Embracing Metta at the Threshold of Fifty
I am a coat...
The previous post, The Bottomless Lake, felt distant, like I was skimming the surface of my own experience rather than diving into its depth. It lacked the emotion, the raw vulnerability, that I always strive to pour into my writing—those moments where I can unravel myself on the page. I was in transition. Struggling to find footing between who I was and who I was becoming. Crossing that mountain ridge wasn’t just another stretch of road; it was a rebirth, a long-needed reset.
Texas had been the defrag— my mind and soul, grinding and fragmented—but New Mexico was something different. That night, as I stood on the edge of something vast, I could feel the system inside me slowly recalibrating. I wasn’t just observing the world around me; I was absorbing it, letting the land seep into my bones. The next morning, the sun warming my skin, I awoke to a shift that felt deeper than any I’d felt before. In that stillness, I posted, but it wasn’t just a post. It was a marker of something new, something beginning.
I’m still processing it all, still feeling those changes ripple through me. What struck me wasn’t how I was affected by the grandeur of the park, nor the awe of its landscapes, but how profoundly I was altered. In the span of a few days, I learned that change isn’t something that happens to us; it’s something we become.
---
This morning, as dawn breaks on another day closer to my half-century mark, I sit with the profound recognition: I am not grown—I am growing. The distinction feels important, a gentle revolution against the finality I once expected of adulthood. Each passing season reveals new dimensions of myself, unfurling like petals that refused to bloom under the harsh judgment I previously imposed.
For decades, I carried the armor assigned to me—white, cis, middle-class male—believing the implicit contract that I must have answers, fix problems, maintain unwavering stability. What a beautiful lie this was. What exhausting misdirection. I spent years building fortifications against vulnerability, not realizing I was constructing my own isolation. The walls I built to keep pain out simultaneously kept authentic connection at bay, leaving me standing guard over an empty kingdom.
The truth reveals itself now with startling clarity: I don't have all answers. I cannot fix everything. And that shell of emotional invulnerability I carefully constructed was never protection—it was a prison slowly filling with gunpowder, waiting for a spark. Each suppressed feeling, each unacknowledged hurt adding to the volatile mix. The pressure built silently beneath the surface of my competence, threatening to shatter the very facade I believed was keeping me safe.
My greatest lesson has been this: I am not meant to be an island. The safety I sought in isolation betrayed me completely. True resilience lives in the "WE"—in answers found together, in shared emotional experiences, in the vulnerability I was taught to reject. Connection, not isolation, became my sanctuary, though finding this truth required nearly five decades. The revelation came gradually, like dawn breaking over a landscape I'd navigated only in darkness—illuminating pathways and possibilities previously invisible to me.
Finding metta—genuine self-love—required me to step back from my ego and unshackle myself from expectations that never belonged to me. This journey unfolds, strikingly, in sobriety and clarity. Without the dulling effects of substances, every realization feels sharper, every emotion more intense. I confront myself with clear eyes, not attempting to blur the edges of my reality. Sobriety offers no escape from discomfort, forcing me to fully inhabit each moment, to witness my patterns without the relief of forgetting. I have never been a drinker, nor have I used drugs; these distractions once disguised as purities were nothing but self-inflicted punishments. I chose to experience all of my suffering, ensuring that none of it was hidden from me. At times, I even wondered: had I become addicted to the pain itself? I knew I deserved better, but I did not know what that looked like.
My path unfolded backward from conventional wisdom. Trusting others came first—a stepping stone to the more treacherous work of trusting myself. How strange that loving others feels simpler than accepting my own reflection. For decades, I internalized every criticism, believing the cruel narrative that neglect and hurt were somehow evidence of my brokenness. I collected these wounds like artifacts, arranging them carefully as proof of my unworthiness. The archaeology of my pain became a full-time occupation, each remembered slight or failure cataloged and preserved as evidence against myself.
These stories became easy to own. Heavy, but familiar. The weight of self-judgment became my constant companion, a shadow self that whispered confirmation of every doubt. I wore my perceived inadequacies like a second skin, so accustomed to their presence that I mistook them for identity. The narrative of not-enough became so ingrained that challenging it felt like challenging gravity—a fundamental law rather than a chosen perspective.
Mirrors became enemies. I couldn't bear witness to myself through my own judging eyes. Fear kept my gaze averted, my eyes often squeezed shut against the scroll of perceived failures—unfulfilled dreams, heartbreaks, disappointments, the persistent sense of falling short as husband, father, friend. Never "good enough" by standards I had adopted but never examined. The reflection showed not just my face but the accumulated weight of comparison and perceived inadequacy. Each glance became an invitation to inventory flaws, to confirm the story of deficiency I'd been writing since childhood.
Society's language became my inner voice. Its expectations contorted my authentic self until my heart labored under their weight, feeding the darkness of depression. I spoke to myself in terms I would never use with others—harsh, unforgiving, absolute in judgment. The dissonance between the compassion I extended outward and the criticism I directed inward created a spiritual wound that widened with time, separating me from any genuine experience of wholeness or peace.
I recognized my need for light but couldn't locate its source. My futile attempts to solve everything alone only deepened my isolation—the very poison I was drinking. The paradox became clear too late: in trying to protect myself through self-sufficiency, I cut off the very connections that could heal me. The masculine imperative to handle everything independently became a noose, tightening with each attempt to prove my capability, strangling the vulnerable truth that I, too, needed support.
The awakening came not through self-revelation but through witnessing hurt I had caused in another's eyes. This reflection finally broke through my carefully constructed walls. Seeing my own pattern mirrored back—the damage of emotional withholding—created an urgency for change that self-preservation never could. The pain I recognized in another became impossible to ignore in myself, catalyzing a transformation that intellectual understanding alone couldn't initiate.
Now I surround myself with people who truly see me. Through their perspective, I glimpse myself anew, discovering the intrinsic value I couldn't recognize alone. These connections have yielded gifts I never expected: emotional authenticity, trust, honesty—all those qualities society labeled as weakness now reveal themselves as profound strength. The vulnerability I feared has become my greatest asset. In exposing my wounds, I found not the rejection I anticipated but recognition, resonance, and the healing balm of shared humanity.
"Emotional" is no longer my curse word but my blessing. I've learned that feeling deeply doesn't diminish me—it expands my capacity for connection, empathy, and genuine presence in my own life. The emotional landscape I once avoided now provides the most meaningful terrain of my existence. What I had dismissed as dangerous weakness revealed itself as the wellspring of wisdom, intuition, and authentic power I had been seeking through more socially acceptable channels.
I'll always appreciate the stoic hero archetype—the man with no name riding tall, chasing Tuco across dusty landscapes. But I now understand I am not him, nor should I be. As an observer rather than an impersonator, I find freedom. Sometimes, watching sunlight reflect in Sentenza’s blue eyes, I glimpse wisdom. But more importantly, I'm beginning to recognize the answers shining in my own. My journey doesn't require someone else's script—the most authentic story is the one I'm writing now, with honesty and self-compassion. The heroes I once emulated offered valuable lessons in courage and determination, but their emotional constriction no longer serves as my template for manhood.
At almost fifty, I finally understand: the journey to myself required me to first relinquish who I thought I should be. Metta begins with acceptance—seeing clearly without judgment—and continues with the daily practice of extending toward myself the same compassion I would offer to any other being on this earth. This is not the ending I once imagined, but rather the beginning I never knew to hope for. The half-century mark approaches not as a finish line but as a threshold to cross with newfound awareness, carrying forward not the burdens of expectation but the liberating practice of self-forgiveness.
The masculine ideals that shaped my early decades—stoicism, self-reliance, emotional containment—have not been discarded but transformed. Strength now reveals itself in the courage to be seen fully, to acknowledge limitation, to request help when needed. Protection manifests not through emotional distance but through creating safe spaces for authentic expression, both for myself and others. The provider role expands beyond material sustenance to include emotional nourishment, spiritual presence, and the willingness to model vulnerability as a pathway to genuine connection.
I no longer measure my worth through achievement or acquisition but through the quality of my presence. Am I awake to this moment? Can I hold space for complexity without rushing to resolution? Do I allow myself and others the dignity of their full emotional experience? These questions guide me now, replacing the metrics of success that previously drove my relentless self-improvement campaigns.
The practice of metta—loving-kindness—begins at home, within the geography of my own being. I am learning to meet my mistakes with curiosity rather than condemnation, to approach my patterns with patience instead of punishment. This inward compassion naturally extends outward, softening my interactions with others, allowing me to recognize our shared struggle to reconcile human limitation with infinite longing.
My relationships have transformed as this inner work progresses. I no longer seek to present a curated version of myself, edited for maximum approval. Instead, I offer what is real, what is true in this moment, trusting that authentic connection requires no performance. The liberation in this truth continues to astonish me—how much energy I conserve by simply being, rather than constantly becoming some imagined better version of myself.
The mirror has become, if not a friend, then at least a neutral witness. I can meet my own gaze now, acknowledging both the lines of age and experience etching themselves into my face and the light that has always existed in my eyes, waiting to be recognized. I see not just the physical reflection but the accumulated wisdom of a life fully felt, the earned compassion that comes from reconciling with one's own humanity.
As I approach fifty years on this earth, I understand that metta is not a destination but a daily choice, a practice of returning to kindness when judgment arises, of choosing curiosity over criticism, of meeting limitation with gentle acknowledgment rather than harsh rejection. The journey continues, but I walk it now with companions rather than competitors, with questions rather than certainties, with an open heart rather than a clenched fist.
In this openness, I find not the vulnerability I once feared but the strength I always sought—the authentic power that emerges when we release the exhausting pretense of invulnerability and embrace the beautiful, messy truth of our interdependence. This is the gift of metta, the unexpected treasure hidden within the challenges of aging: the discovery that true safety lies not in isolation but in connection, not in perfection but in authenticity, not in knowing all answers but in remaining curious about all questions.
The man I am becoming at fifty bears little resemblance to the man I thought I should be. And for this transformation—this beautiful unraveling and reweaving of identity—I am profoundly grateful. The practice continues, moment by moment, reflection by reflection, choice by choice. And in this practice, I find not just self-love but a more expansive love—one that recognizes our shared journey through vulnerability toward wholeness, our collective struggle to reconcile expectation with authenticity, our universal longing to be truly seen and accepted.
This is the gift of metta: not a perfect arrival, but a perpetual returning to kindness—for ourselves, for others, for the messy, miraculous journey of being human.
