Running Its Course

Editor’s Note: Cecilia Capuzzi Simon writes on psychological health and education (at least for the moment) and teaches at American University in Washington, DC. She wrote for the New York Times for 12 years, and also for the Washington Post. She was a regular contributor to Psychology Today and Psychotherapy Networker.

Running its course. What a loaded expression. I’ve been thinking a lot about it since I came upon it in one of Jodi’s AgeSpots essays. She said, “my career as a journalist has run its course.”  If her career as a journalist has run its course, and she is courageous enough to say so, then perhaps mine has, too? And I should admit it to myself? I have been struggling with these questions for the past couple of years.

Jodi and I came to know each other professionally more than 30 years ago in New York. I was a young(ish) journalist covering media; Jodi was publicist extraordinaire and also the unusual pitch person who was genuine and funny and actually friendly. Our professional relationship grew into a friendship that persists to this day, though many miles and years and very different lives separate us.

But leave it to Jodi to make me deeply and quirkily (is that even a word?) examine where I am in my “career”—and, hence, my life.

Is admitting that something so central to one’s life has “run its course” an admission of giving up on it? Of failure? Or worse, advanced age?  I have always been one to think too deeply about questions that, in the end, I realize I should never have spent so much time torturing myself over. This is probably one of them.

But I do believe that at the heart of my struggle with an answer is not just that I became tired of the same-old-same-old work and stresses associated with journalism. It is also, perhaps, allowing myself to admit that I am, simply, done with it. That at the age of 63 it makes sense, just maybe, that I’d like to move on to another phase of life, to do other things that bring me joy and satisfy my creative urges. And to be OK with this change. 

But ahh, here’s the rub: That number 63. Am I accepting that all those years of work, of striving, have peaked and are over? That there’s no way for me to make that next mark—to make the mark I never made?

I have been a university adjunct for 23 years, teaching journalism (what else?). I guide students just starting on their “course.”  I see their youth, I see how the business has changed, I see their internship supervisors and employers thirsting after their youth. My students remind me of myself at their age, but they also constantly remind me of the status of my current “course.” 

I am also a yoga practitioner and teacher. I try daily to tap into my deeper motivations and how I am connecting to the world.  Every morning I come down to my kitchen, make coffee, and then—hot mug in hand—stand in front of a big picture window and do a five-minute or so meditation.

My view outside is of the convergence of five back yards. Positioned at the center is a huge white pine 50 yards away. I align myself with its straight and massive trunk. I plant the soles of my feet firmly into the wood of my kitchen floor.  I look up at the tree. I say some prayers for myself and the world, give gratitude for the day, send love and encouragement to my kids wherever they happen to be.

I think about where my life is going, where I want it to be and, now, whether certain parts of it have run their course—and whether it is OK to let those pieces go.

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