Today, I declared a major and registered for classes in a do-it-yourself post-bacc at my local public university. I’m 42, and I’m a pre-med. If all goes to plan, I’ll begin medical school at age 46 in 2020.
Tonight, feeling hopeful and defiant, I wrote this in my journal:
I believe in miracles and magic. I believe in prayer and angels and God. I believe in do-overs, second chances, and that all is not lost. I’m an eternal optimist, and I believe most (most) self-proclaimed “realists” are mere pessimists at heart. I believe in hope, and in trying, trying again. I believe in forgiveness and in chasing after dreams, no matter how many eyebrows raise at your idea. I don’t believe in too old, or too late, or too much, or too long. I don’t believe failure is forever. I think “quit” is a four-letter profanity. I think “enough” is settling. I think when it starts to hurt you’re finally getting somewhere. I think blooming late is just blooming (and who wants to be a premature bloomer, anyway?). I believe we live until we die (and then we live again).
So I rage, rage–and will continue to rage–against the dying of the light. I will live until I die. And I will spend the second half of my life in the study and practice of medicine.