Saying Goodbye to 46: Time, Growth, and One Chance at Today

What’s on my mind?

It’s my last day as a 46-year-old.

I’ll never be 46 again.

Tonight, my wife and kids and I will say goodbye to 46-year-old Adam. Sound dramatic? Yep. It is. And I surprised myself by getting emotional about it this weekend.

We had a “birthday” weekend for me—meaning I got to decide everything we did. Lunch out, a movie, video games, and a bucket list recipe all mixed in. Somewhere in there we joked about it being my last weekend as a 46-year-old… and then it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

This morning, on the way to school drop-off, Leo asked if I was sad, happy, excited, nervous… all the things… about turning 47.

I told him the truth: I’m all of them.

I’m sad when I think about how fast this goes. The time is gone. I don’t get it back.

I’m excited too… because wow… I did more than I ever thought possible in my 46th year, and I can feel momentum going into the year ahead.

And I’m nervous because my hopes and dreams for this next year are big.

Will I accomplish what I want to accomplish?
What will I learn?
What information will show up that changes what I thought I already knew?
Will I be open to it?

One of the movies we watched this weekend was The Adam Project. There were several parts that stood out, but one scene felt like a mirror.

Two characters—who are the same person at different ages—are talking about their dad. The older one describes him as selfish. Always working. Never home. The younger one describes him as loving and present—so present that even after a long day he’d still come out and play catch.

Then they talk about that “catch back” net—the one that bounces the ball back so you can play by yourself.

The older Adam remembers it as the thing their dad bought so he could play catch alone, because their dad was never around.

The younger Adam remembers it as the thing he begged for after seeing it in a store window for weeks.

Same object. Same life. Two completely different stories.

That scene stuck with me because it’s such a clean example of something I’ve been learning the hard way:

The more distance between you and a memory, the more blanks you fill in. You create a story. And the story you create is shaped by the way you think and the choices you make.

You get to choose.

Later in the movie, the dad has a moment with his son. The Adams are about to tell him something about the future—something they think could change everything. And the dad stops them. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want the knowledge to change how he lives.

I cried during that part, which was very uncomfortable for me. Leo kept looking at me. I’ve cried in front of my kids before, but not often.

And I had this thought that felt so obvious it almost made me mad:

What would I do differently if I knew I was going to die?

But wait.

I am going to die. We all are.

For years I lived like today doesn’t matter. Like I had plenty of time to do what matters to me tomorrow… or some other day when things calm down.

It reminds me of a saying I love: “Everyone has two lives, and the second one begins when you realize you only have one.”

This past year, I did a much better job of living like today actually matters. I only get one chance at this day and then it’s gone.

And if I mess it up—and I likely will—good.

That means I’ll have feedback for the next day.

That question is part of why I love this “goodbye” tradition in our house.

It started the eve before Jett’s 8th birthday. I got down on my knees, looked him in the eye, and told him goodbye.

“Goodbye 7-year-old Jett. I’m so proud of who you are. I love you so much. Thank you for being a part of my life. And I’m excited to see what 8-year-old Jett is like.”

I cried like crazy—more than I expected.

So now we do it. Tonight, at bedtime, the people I love will tell me goodbye too. They’ll probably share a few things they loved about my 46th year. And I’ll tell the truth about what I’m grateful for… and what I’m ready to leave behind.

Because the biggest change in my 46th year wasn’t something you could easily see from the outside.

If you’re an outsider looking at my 46th year versus any other year I lived before it, you might think they all look similar. They rhyme.

But you’d miss the biggest change of all because of how subtle it is:

I changed the way I think.

It took nine years from the time I decided I wanted to love myself to waking up every day feeling like it’s true.

Nine years of therapy.
Meditation.
Journaling.
Daily gratitude.
Writing down why I love myself—every day.

It was uncomfortable. It felt phony. It felt forced.

Until one day it didn’t.

In my 46th year, I started waking up each day wanting to live. Loving myself. Believing I’m beautiful. Actually receiving love that other people had been trying to give me for years.

Love I couldn’t receive before—because I didn’t feel like I deserved it.

I spent a lot of years hiding parts of myself. Hiding what I was thinking. Hiding what I needed. I didn’t say out loud what I wanted from this one life I have because I didn’t feel like I deserved any of it.

And then, after years of doing “all the right things,” I finally said the bravest word I’ve ever said:

Help.

For a long time, that word felt like a whisper inside me. I did things all day every day that I thought were cries for help, but they weren’t obvious to anyone else—because people can’t read your mind.

My signals were quiet. Indirect. Sometimes invisible.

And what I’ve learned is simple, but not easy:

If you need something, ask.
If you think something, say it.
If you’re struggling, tell someone.

46-year-old Adam would do anything for the people he loves… but he can’t read their mind.

Tonight, I’ll say goodbye to 46-year-old Adam.

I’ll miss him. I’m grateful for him. I’m proud of what he did this year.

And then I’ll wake up tomorrow and try again.

I want to live fully.
Feel everything.
Learn.
Stay open to change.
Seek growth.
Tell the truth.

I am beautiful.

And I’m still here.