A Sense of Loss

I've been thinking about something lately that has been difficult to put into words. Not because it's painful—although it is—but because it's one of those experiences that seems to creep into our lives quietly. It doesn't arrive all at once. It comes in pieces.

I've come to realize that what I've been experiencing is a sense of loss.

Not the kind of loss that comes from saying goodbye to someone you love. Rather, it's the gradual loss of pieces of the life I once took for granted. The ability to do as much physically as I once could. The ability to bounce back after a busy day without needing a day or two to recover. Making plans without wondering, "What's this going to cost me?" I'm not talking about money. I'm talking about energy. Strength. Endurance. Sleeping through the night. Enjoying a glass of wine or a favorite drink without wondering whether I'll regret it later.

There was a time when I rarely thought about my health. Now it's difficult not to think about it every day. Doctor's appointments, medications, test results, new symptoms, old symptoms...they have a way of demanding attention.

Then there are the questions that don't have answers: What will six months from now look like? Or a year? Will I still be able to complete the projects I enjoy? Will Brenda and I still be able to take the trips we've talked about? Will we still be able to create the memories we hope to make together?

The truth is, I don't know.

I've also found myself sorting through boxes and shelves filled with things I've collected over a lifetime: books; CD's; family keepsakes; dad and grandpa Prothero's tools; sheet music and study scores. Things that once seemed indispensable. Some of them bring back wonderful memories. Some remind me of seasons of life that have long since passed. And some simply remind me that we spend much of our lives accumulating things, only to discover that what mattered most was never really the things at all.

Perhaps the greatest realization is that aging slowly teaches us a lesson we've resisted for most of our lives. We were never as much in control as we thought we were. That's not an easy lesson. Neither is acknowledging that we're grieving—not because life is over, but because life is changing.

I suspect I'm not alone in this. If you've reached a certain age, or if you've dealt with health issues that changed your life, you've probably made your own list of quiet losses. They're real. They deserve to be acknowledged.

But here's what I've also discovered. Loss has a way of sharpening our vision. It reminds us that today matters. It reminds us that relationships matter more than possessions. It reminds us that an afternoon with Brenda, a conversation with a friend, a good book, a fresh cup of coffee, or taking a brisk walk as the sun rises can still be enough.

Maybe that's one of the gifts hidden inside growing older. Not that we lose less. But that we begin to recognize, with greater clarity, what is truly worth holding onto.

I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts. Have you found yourself grieving the quiet losses that come with aging or changing health? And have you discovered, as I am trying to, that those losses can also point us toward what matters most? Leave a comment here, or email me at johnscoffeehouse552@gmail.com.