The Time We Have Left

This morning, I found myself dreaming.

Not the kind of dream that fades when the alarm sounds, but the kind that rises slowly with the sun and lingers in the heart like a hymn.

I saw a life that feels just within reach: mornings that begin with coffee and journaling, wrapped in a blanket by the fire—or under the soft hush of a garden morning in spring. A hike to a quiet vista where the trees listen without judgment and the sky makes room for prayer. Dogs bounding ahead on the trail. Cats curled into sunlight back at the house.

After breakfast, I’d write—another book, a blog, a course. With Liam, of course, at my side like he always is. In the afternoons, I’d wander to a small barn studio to paint or play with resin, letting color speak where words fall short. There’d be retreats—maybe on the property, maybe across the country. I’d travel to speak, to teach, to tell stories that remind others they are not alone.

I want to touch hearts. I want to leave something behind that matters.

But alongside this vision comes a quieter, more vulnerable question:
Do I have enough time?

I am 71. And though I’m healthy and strong, I know the truth of an aging body. I wonder how many more years I’ll have to hike without pain, to dance without hesitation, to write without rushing. I look to women like Jane Fonda and Cher—still active, still powerful—and I think, yes, maybe. But they have teams and resources I don’t.

And still… I dream.

Because here’s what I know deep in my bones:
It is not too late.

The dreams we carry into the second half of life are not remnants of lost time. They are the distilled wisdom of our lived experience. They are what remains after everything false has burned away. These dreams are not foolish—they are sacred.

I didn’t have this dream at 30. I wasn’t ready.
I have it now.
Now, when I understand what matters.
Now, when I’ve loved and lost and risen again.
Now, when I’m strong enough to be soft and brave enough to begin again.

If you’re reading this and feeling the same ache—the longing to become who you were always meant to be—I want you to know something:
You don’t need decades to live meaningfully. You need alignment. You need willingness. You need to begin.

Let your next chapter be the one you write with your whole heart.

Let the fear of not having enough time push you toward what matters, not away from it.

Let yourself dream out loud.

Let yourself start.

What dream is whispering to you now that didn’t—or couldn’t—emerge until this season of life?
Write it down. Say it aloud. Share it with someone who will hold it gently. And then… take the first step.