Field Notes on Carving a New Era

What does it look like to intentionally infuse our lives with wonder?

I've been thinking about that question lately—not because I'm planning some dramatic reinvention. I'm not. I'm simply paying closer attention to the life I'm living now—and to what makes me curious about what might come next.

For us 50-plusers, there can be a curious expectation that we should begin narrowing our lives. Slow down. Simplify. Be sensible. Accept that certain things belong to an earlier version of ourselves. I'm not buying all of that.

I'm not interested in burning down the foundation I've built. I'm interested in discovering what else can grow from it.

For me, that has meant experimenting with bold flavors in the kitchen, writing, learning Spanish, traveling, spending time with friends, tending my garden, and occasionally saying yes to something that would have surprised the woman I was ten years ago.

I've realized that wonder doesn't always come in the form of a big, life-changing event. Sometimes it shows up as simple curiosity, or as trying something new and unfamiliar. Other times, it's the moment I realize, Yes, I want to do that. And there are moments when wonder is simply recognizing that the life we're building also needs to make space for others. That makes me reflect on the importance of social health.

As someone who has spent much of my professional life in public health, I find myself looking at connection differently these days. We talk a great deal about food, movement, sleep, preventive care—all the things we know contribute to living well.

Research increasingly tells us that social connection matters, too.

But here's where my own experience complicates the conversation.

I'm not convinced that social health means simply having more people around us.

I've had relationships where I was very good at showing up. I asked about someone's children. I remembered what was happening at work. I listened to the stories, celebrated the victories, and checked in when things were difficult. And sometimes I realized that the curiosity wasn't coming back toward me.

I noticed it in small ways, and I noticed it in profound ways.

Even during one of the most difficult seasons of my life, there were people who could tell me everything about themselves but somehow never thought to ask about my children.

That taught me something.

Connection isn't automatically reciprocal simply because it is called friendship.

Some relationships replenish us. Others quietly deplete us, and sometimes the depletion is so gradual that we don't recognize it until we're tired of pouring.

I'm less interested now in having a large social circle than I am in having relationships where there is genuine curiosity about one another—where I can listen to your stories, applaud your life, and feel that you have an interest in mine.

Where we can laugh. Where we can be quiet. Where neither person must keep score because the giving and receiving has a natural rhythm.

That, to me, feels like a much healthier kind of connection.

First, I learned more about myself.

Before I decide who belongs in my social world, I must pay attention to myself.

What energizes me? What drains me? Where do I feel most like myself? What am I curious about? What do I want to learn, experience, taste, see, hear, or simply sit with?

That kind of self-awareness isn't selfish. It is discernment, and I'll tell you, I've come to appreciate discernment more with age.

Because not every invitation deserves a yes. Not every relationship deserves unlimited access. Not every conversation needs to continue. And not every person who has been part of one chapter needs to accompany us into the next; nope, I'm not buying that either.

I often think about the power of water because it is such a powerful image of renewal.

In my own faith tradition, Ezekiel describes a river whose waters bring life wherever they flow. I love that image—not because I need to convince anyone else to see it the way I do, but because it speaks to something I recognize in my own life.

I've also noticed how often water appears in Buddhist traditions as an image associated with clarity, calm, purification, and renewal.

Different traditions, different language. And yet water keeps showing up.

Perhaps because we understand instinctively that something life-giving needs to move.

It cannot remain stagnant.

Neither can we.

So what happens next?

For me, it isn't about forcing myself to be more social. It is about investing in the life I'm already living.

Take the trip. Try the recipe. Learn the language. Go hear the music. Spend the afternoon in the garden. Write the thing. Sit at the counter with a good cup of coffee. Meet someone new. Spend time alone when I want to—and notice what happens.

Because when I participate in my own life, I become more interesting to myself.

I have something to talk about. Something to share. Something to wonder about.

And sometimes, along the way, I meet people with whom there is a natural exchange—a conversation that doesn't leave me feeling emptied, but somehow a little more alive.

That may be the kind of social health I'm interested in now.

Not more. Better.

Not filling every square inch of the calendar. Not collecting people. Not performing connection. But creating a life spacious enough for curiosity, deep enough for discernment, and open enough for reciprocal relationships to find me.

Maybe that's what carving a new era looks like.

Not becoming someone entirely new. Not starting over—just becoming more intentional about the life I already have.

And I'm finding that the more I live it, the more there is to discover.

Janine, MPH

Field Notes from a life in progress.