There are reasons — some good, some bad, some utterly incomprehensible — why there are age and/or experience limits on a lot of things in life. You’re more likely able to appreciate the consequences of smoking that pack of cigarettes you just bought, or the potential perils of firing that gun that you own. Whatever industry or career you’ve chosen to spend time pursuing, experience makes you a more efficient and smarter performer. The more time you spend behind the wheel of a car, the more you learn to react to any situation quickly and smartly.

I’m not a believer in fate, or pre-destination. I think finding out that that idea was rooted in a universal truth would probably be the end of me — why bother and all, if it’s already written in stone? Not to mention that I see too much injustice and unfairness in the world to even begin to accept that narrative.

I do, however, subscribe quite strongly to the ideas of good and bad timing, of being in the right place at the right moment, of recognizing opportunity when it is presented. I think said recognition comes with age and experience.

I think also that the ability to take advantage properly of such opportunities is dependent on age and experience, as well. Had I been handed the chance to earn millions of dollars coming out of college, I would have likely screwed it up or (worse) become jaded and entitled. I simply wasn’t in the right mindset to handle such responsibility or such reward.

There’s a certain naivete that I carried through a lot of my young adulthood — likely a result of my (overly) romanticized view of life and it’s larger arcs. Things like jobs and property and creative pursuits and relationships were supposed to happen a certain way if you did x, y, and z — that’s the way it is in movies, and TV shows, and books. And when things didn’t happen how I expected (spoiler alert: pretty much all the time), it was a huge shock to the system. Disappointing, sure — of course it was. But also stunning, inexplicable.

Fortunately — and looking around, believe me when I say that I recognize my fortune here — I never expected answers to be spoon-fed, nor did I expect the same actions to generate new and different results. I questioned others about the perceived failures. I questioned myself. I had conversations — some easy, some incredibly painful and self-image puncturing, always educational — and did reading and thought and pondered and probably overthought and over-pondered and then finally learned. Sometimes in a burst of inspiration, sometimes so slowly that I didn’t recognize the lesson for years, but always — and I continue to do so — learning, so that the next opportunity wouldn’t fall prey to a mistake.

Or at least, not the same mistakes I had already tripped over. Always make new mistakes.

My first real relationship ended not only poorly, but in such a way (due to the particulars of my understanding of the world, and myself, and the way relationships are “supposed to work”) that I was left with little to no sense of identity. This, in many ways, was probably the best thing that ever happened to me, because it not only forced me to evaluate and rethink almost everything that is important to and about me, but also slapped me in the face with the realization that the world isn’t as simple as parts of me had always imagined (or at least hoped).

And so the years passed, and I made many, many more bad decisions and unforced errors and questionable (at best) calls. And I continued to examine the history, and the factors external and internal, and to glean what I could from mine and other perspectives — where I had chosen poorly or behaved inappropriately, where others had, where scenarios were simply untenable and how to better recognize them.

I realize that I am not perfect — or to avoid using that loaded term, not where I would like to be in terms of my insecurities, my abilities to react to and manage certain events, my presuppositions and presumptions and prejudices. I still have a ways to go with those things and more, and I spend at least a small chunk of every day working through those issues and trying to be more my own ideal. But I do have a much bigger toolbox, and a much more expansive guidebook, and enough experience that I can handle the smaller things without devoting any energy to them, conserving my efforts for the bigger, more difficult ones.

There’s this idea that certain endings are predestined — because all previous attempts at a given outcome ended a certain way. Beyond rejecting the idea of a predetermined outcome, I refuse this thought — perhaps as a result of my desire (need?) to believe in some part of my younger romanticized comic-book version of the world, no matter how small, but also because while my past is littered with examples of failure, those examples grow less bitter and painful with each passing year.

I have never been a physically graceful or gifted person. It took me ten years of playing soccer before I felt remotely comfortable on the field (never great, but passable). In 35 years, I’ve never become more than a slightly-better-than-average guitarist or pianist. To this day, learning new skills involving my body — dancing, playing drums, yoga — are embarrassing and horrifically frustrating for me, because apparently I sacrificed most of my physical IQ in favor of other attributes (and if anyone can help me figure out what those are, I’d appreciate it). But I wanted to play soccer, and so I kept trying to be better in different ways. I wanted to be able to play guitar, so I kept trying different practice styles and techniques. And one day, I stopped failing at both enough to be happy with the results.

If I had met Natalie a decade ago, I would not have been ready. Five years ago, one year ago (though that last one is technically incorrect, as we met about two years ago, IIRC) — the time (and my head) weren’t right. I had more to learn — about relationships, about myself, about the way I react and relate to others, about what I control and don’t. It’s not an age thing, but an experience thing.

And my experience tells me I’ve never felt more loved or cared for, nor happier or more whole, and capable of generating a different outcome than expected or predicted — one more in line with the better version of the world that I refuse to give up on. If there’s anything that is worth fighting for with everything I have and then some — well, like Vonnegut encourages: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'”