The Way Out of Midlife: Reordering the Self and Returning to Simplicity

Darkness can glow; silence can speak; quiet surpasses a thousand words.

— Epigraph

Reaching midlife, we feel ever more strongly that time returns everything we have to dust. Our elders leave us one after another; among our own generation, people too have begun to bow out of life. Our years are like a banquet drawing toward its close, with more and more guests rising to leave.

We not only repeatedly grieve the dead; we also face family crises, emotional crises, and career crises, and begin to show our own nervous symptoms, becoming periodically more fragile than before. Especially after the death of an important close relative, a breakup with a partner, a serious illness, a major family blow-up, a career setback, or the realization that our work is not what we wanted to do, we become discouraged, even crushed.

Midlife people, with the old above and the young below, carry the greatest economic and emotional pressure in society, yet receive less and less emotional support. The expectations we had of partners in youth are losing their foam in real life; youthful dreams grow distant; many bend for a living wage. The elders and peers who once sustained us are passing away, leaving us nowhere to turn with our sorrows.

So the midlife crisis arrives uninvited. But loss, from one angle, also means gain. That inner self begins to awaken in midlife. At every exhausted moment we question our heart: Who am I? What am I pursuing? Is this the life I want? What kind of company do I long for? Where has my joy gone?

We may never have asked these before. Growing up, we thought about what our elders expected and what society expected. We were bound by one ideal model after another, striving to reach them.

Deep within us there is also something else—old fantasies that nonetheless beckon us toward our own path. At the same time there are things that, under current moral norms, cannot see the light: longing for an ideal partner, longing for sex, longing for indulgence, even longing for self-harm and death. They draw us from the other side, making us restless and tempted.

Then we begin to feel that our present life is not ideal, even a little wretched. We doubt life itself, the reasonableness of social norms, the distorting effect of morality on human nature—yet fear losing what we have. Some grow anxious, some depressed, some drown their sorrows in drink, some have affairs; the fragile even take their own lives.

Midlife life is not just a tangle of trivialities; it is also a puzzled face and a heart full of wounds. There are too many burdens and disappointments, and we are dragged into the mire, unable to pull free. Emotional family members make the home no longer a harbor; we long to hide in a corner for a quiet moment, and wish life could begin again.

Looking back, we feel we have made too many wrong decisions, but we know many can no longer be changed. We reluctantly carry burdens that were never ours, trudging on, feeling ready to collapse under the weight. Physiologically, our sex hormones are declining; we find sex no longer gives the pleasure it once did.

Then we realize: it is time to tidy up my life, to lay down unnecessary burdens, to find in this challenging world something that can ease me. I must grasp some lifeline so as not to be so disappointed.

Nearly everyone passes through such a stage. Its essence is that life cannot be lived backward; everyone grows from immaturity to maturity. At an immature age we make major decisions that shape a lifetime; the partners and careers we choose are hard to change, and the hobbies we had to give up cost us much joy.

How to walk out of the midlife predicament? When the psychologist Jung met his own midlife crisis, he went to a quiet place and played the games of his childhood. As he played, he let go and came through. He further proposed that each of us is in fact self-sufficient and whole, with a deep inner strength enough for a lifetime. But as we grow, to adapt to society and meet the expectations of parents, spouses, and children, we lose a large part of ourselves. That lost self lies hidden in childhood; had we developed according to our complete childhood needs, we would not face a midlife predicament.

Of all people, we must first keep good company with ourselves; we ourselves are our ultimate partner. To be reborn we must recover the missing parts; once recovered, we are whole. We have always asked those around us to fill our gaps, but that is unrealistic and unfair to our partners—it means asking them to sacrifice themselves for us.

Only when we are reborn and have fully developed ourselves can we, under the blows of bereavement, betrayal, broken romance, unemployment, or illness, not collapse at the first shock. A person must first be able to be happy alone, and only then can he calmly face life and society. On the condition that we are already calm and happy, a good partner is the icing on the cake. With three or five close friends, life is even richer. Then our partners and friends are not worn out by our demands, and our love for them lasts.

Each person is born with pitifully few needs; in fact, the simpler and plainer a person's life, the better his health, the longer his life, and the higher his quality of life. My grandmother had five children; from my aunt down to my youngest uncle, and even we grandchildren, under her influence lived with extreme frugality—our life was almost that of ascetics.

Yet from my grandmother to our generation, our health has been excellent; no one died young, and most lived long. My father is nearly eighty now; though he has common elderly ailments and a weaker memory, he still rides his bicycle across county lines. His mind is clear, ears and eyes sharp, and his logical thinking outpaces many young people; he analyzes problems to the quick and sees them point-blank. He knows when to advance and when to withdraw; his emotional self-control puts me to shame. His condition gives me confidence in my own old age; I suspect that in my eighties or nineties I may still write fluently, producing deeper articles than now.

I myself am in my forties, in better shape than most thirty-year-olds, and my face leads many to doubt I am under thirty. That is the greatest benefit of simple living. While studying cancer I learned that dietary and lifestyle habits are formed in childhood. The more frugal the life and the more the diet leans toward vegetarian, the lower the cancer risk. Usually, people with weak material desires are also less anxious and better able to focus on the work they love.

Jung's further research showed that to emerge from midlife, one must follow the heart, answer the call of vocation and passion, and throw oneself wholeheartedly into an ideal work and life. This is the fundamental way out: only when, even alone, we can feel joy in our work and life, and are self-sufficient, is our happiness most reliable.

Because if we live long enough we will find that those who keep us company always leave this world before us; when they are gone we must still learn to be alone. If we leave before them, they too must learn. Relying on another person or group for ultimate security and joy is unrealistic; we must rely on ourselves.

Our ideals and hobbies not only make us happy but also make us valuable and attractive people. Our value and charm draw those around us to enjoy our company, treating us with respect for our individuality. Because a personality developed according to our own will is distinctive, others recognize it at a glance and know where our boundaries lie; that kind of relating is most comfortable for both sides.

The individual, freed from collectivism, from social ideal-models, and from parents' inhuman expectations, returns to simplicity, devotes himself to developing his own individuality, and in the end not only realizes himself and forms a unique charm but also creates real value for the human collective. This is the brightest point of individualism and a mark of human liberation.