Frequently this Summer, I’ve caught myself asking a question that would have surprised the younger version of me.
“What’s next?”
Not in the ambitious, twenty-five-year-old sense. I wasn’t asking about the next promotion, the next company to build, the next financial goal, the next vacation to plan or the next mountain to climb.
I was asking something quieter. Something a little… deeper.
For most of my adult life, I’ve been a builder. Like many of you, I’ve poured myself into work I care about, tried to be a good husband and father, chased down opportunities, recovered from failures, celebrated victories, and measured my days by how much I could check off the to-do list before my head hit the pillow every night.
That season of life was meaningful. In some ways, it still is.
But somewhere after fifty, I noticed something shifting—not around me, but within me.
The goals that once fueled me didn’t carry quite the same energy. The urge to prove myself softened just a little. Success became less about adding another line to my résumé and more about adding another layer to my understanding.
At first, I wondered if I was simply slowing down. Getting old – one “zero fucks to give” from wearing dress socks with sandals to the grocery store.
Then I stumbled across an ancient idea that completely reframed what I was experiencing.
Thousands of years before neuroscience podcasts, leadership books, and retirement planning, Hindu philosophers described life as unfolding through four distinct stages, or ashramas. They believed each season of life asks something different of us and that wisdom comes not from resisting those transitions but from fully embracing them.
As I dug in and learned more about the ashramas, it felt less like discovering something new and more like remembering something I’d somehow always known.
We Aren’t Meant to Live Every Season of Life the Same Way
The first stage, Brahmacharya, is about learning. It’s the season of becoming.
The second, Grihastha, is the life most of us know best. We build careers. Raise families. Create businesses. Shoulder responsibility. We produce. We achieve. We contribute.
Our culture celebrates this stage endlessly. It’s the American dream. But according to the ancient sages, it isn’t the destination us Americans think it might be.
Around midlife comes a remarkable transition known as Vanaprastha, literally translated to, “going to the forest.”
I’ve grown to love that image.
Venturing into the forest isn’t about escaping civilization or removing yourself from reality. It’s about creating enough distance from the noise to finally hear the wind in the trees, the birds singing, the river flowing and… your own soul again.
You don’t stop contributing. You just contribute differently.
You become less interested in being the smartest person in the room and more interested in helping someone else discover their own wisdom.
You begin measuring success less by what you’ve accumulated and more by what you’re able to give away.
- Knowledge.
- Perspective.
- Presence.
- Gratitude.
- Understanding
Arthur Brooks Describes the Same Journey
I was introduced to the ashramas by reading Arthur Brooks’ book, From Strength to Strength. It’s a great read that I highly recommend.
In this book, Brooks explains that much of our early success depends on what psychologists call fluid intelligence or our ability to solve problems quickly, innovate, compete, and create.
It’s what gets us promoted. It’s the energy we channel to build companies and it wins us praise and accolades.
But, like my hairline, fluid intelligence naturally fades with age.
Most of us probably interpret this change as just more bad news about getting older. Brooks doesn’t.
He points to something even more valuable that continues to grow within us as we mature: crystallized intelligence.
Things like… Wisdom. Pattern recognition. Discernment.
The ability to see connections that younger minds haven’t lived long enough to really recognize.
The world tells us we’re losing something when we cross the imaginary threshold into our Golden Years. But, Brooks argues we’re actually being invited to explore something much richer and perhaps, more rewarding.
He captures that invitation in one of my favorite passages from the book. He writes that the purpose of life’s final chapter is “to drink from the chalice of life’s deepest secrets.”
Hell Yeah. I’ve returned to that sentence over and over again in my mind.
Not because it offers me any answers but, because it changes the questions I’m asking myself in the quiet moments.
Maybe We Were Never Meant to Peak at Forty
Our culture spends enormous energy teaching us how to succeed and very little teaching us how to mature.
- We celebrate youth.
- We idolize maximum productivity.
- We admire people who keep climbing.
Yet some of the people I’ve admired most weren’t impressive because of what they built.
They were unforgettable because of who they became. They had a steadiness that couldn’t be shaken by success or failure. They listened more than they spoke. They made people feel seen. They carried a quiet confidence that only comes from having lived through enough joy and heartbreak to know what truly matters.
They had entered the forest.
The Story Changes
One of the beautiful things about storytelling is that every great story eventually changes pace. There comes a point when the hero stops chasing treasure, slays his last dragon, saves his last princess and starts searching for meaning.
It’s the moment in time that the adventure becomes less about conquering the world and more about understanding it.
Maybe that’s why so many people over fifty begin writing books they’ve postponed for years. Or mentoring younger leaders. Taking grandchildren fishing. Volunteering. Traveling more intentionally. Repairing old relationships. Asking bigger spiritual questions.
It’s easy to mistake these impulses for slowing down.
I think they’re signs that the story is deepening to the good part.
My Forest
I’m beginning to think the forest isn’t a place we travel to. It’s a place we finally allow ourselves to enter.
It appears to us the moment achievement no longer satisfies by itself.
The moment curiosity becomes more important than certainty.
The moment we stop asking, “How much more can I accomplish?” and begin asking, “What kind of ancestor am I becoming?”
We quietly trade goals and objectives for “eugology virtues”. (That sounds like a great follow up reflection!)
For me, The Story of Us Project has become part of that forest.
This journey is less about telling my story than creating space for other people to discover theirs. It’s less about having the right answers than asking the right questions. These letters and our podcast episodes are less about being remembered for what I did and more about whether I helped someone else see their own life differently (while secretly pocketing life lessons in what amounts to free 60 minute therapy sessions).
Maybe that’s what my third act will have been all about in the end.
So, Here’s the Invitation
If you’ve crossed fifty like me – or are approaching it—I wonder if you’ve felt this shift too?
Maybe you’ve sensed that the metrics you’ve lived by for decades no longer tell the whole story.
Maybe you’ve accomplished things your younger self could only dream about, yet find yourself hungry for something achievement alone can’t satisfy.
If so, perhaps nothing’s wrong with you. You’re not suffering through a midlife crisis and you’re not on the verge of a massive panic attack, though it may feel like it sometimes.
Naw, man. Perhaps you’re just entering a new season of life.
The ancient Hindu sages believed every stage of life carries its own sacred purpose. Arthur Brooks reminds us that the greatest goal of this season is to drink from the chalice of life’s deepest secrets.
I can’t think of a better invitation.
Don’t stop growing – Remain wildly curious.
Don’t stop contributing – Show up. Do the work. Put in the effort.
But, start measuring life by a different kind of abundance.
Because in the end, the richest people are not those who collected the most treasure.
They’re the ones who gathered enough wisdom to light the path through the forest for someone else.
Maybe that’s what the forest has been waiting to teach us all along?
That the most meaningful chapters of your story aren’t behind you at my age.
Perhaps they are the ones you’re just beginning to write.
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