Putting the Third-of-life Crisis into Perspective: Buddhism

The search for guidance during my mid-thirties reinvention recently led me to begin "The Way to Freedom: Core Teachings of Tibetan Buddhism" by His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  Last night brought me to the chapter on Death, which opened in part with "of all the different kinds of awareness, awareness of impermanence and death is best" and continued with "of all the people we know or have seen, none will remain in one hundred years."  This filled me with both a sense of relief and with feelings of poignant sadness.  It all matters because we're blessed to have the chance to exist but it (we ourselves, those we love, the world as we know it) will be gone in the blink of an eye.

I won't lie and say I'm not afraid of dying, though perhaps that means I've got some spiritual growth to attend to.  The truth is that when I try to get a grip on what it means to die and the fact that it will happen, I'm terrified.  It feels like my brain is somewhat incapable of imagining its own physical death.  My own fear and difficulty in wrapping my head around death itself along with imagining the loss of everyone I love is painful and sad.  Despite this, however, there is a flip side.  Realizing such total inevitable loss makes me feel both like "I am so lucky to have right now" and as if "none of the worldly stuff is going to matter not too long from today."  It's pretty crazy when you think about it: We live knowing that no matter what we do it will all be gone, all be over... soon.  For me that makes the important things seem pretty obvious.

Is it morbid to use death as a constant reminder that provides life perspective?  Or is it true, as the Dalai Lama says, that "if you reflect upon death and impermanence, you will begin to make your life meaningful"?  The best moments I have of late are the ones when, despite uncertainty or petty annoyances or sadness, I'm able to appreciate the brevity of things.  Does it really matter whether or not I find my life's passion in my next career or achieve some level of "success" again when everything is so fleeting anyway?  Is it wise to worry about "figuring it all out" at the expense of missing the things I'm so lucky to have (i.e. friends, family, significant other) right now?

A common thread between quarterlife, third-of-life, and midlife (or any-phase-of-life!) crises is the realization that we're not immortal and that the "someday" we've always been striving for, working for, and sacrificing for may not arrive before we die.  It's the "is this really my life?" feeling.  It's the feeling that the whole thing may just pass us by.  Could remembering how brief each of our life moments are in the massive span of time remind us, even during mundane day-to-day existence, how incredibly lucky we are just to be here?  Could that help alleviate some of the angst of the "x-of-life" crises?

The Burnout

Up until eight months ago, I was "successful".  I graduated from a great school (UC Berkeley) in 1999 and proceeded into on a high-paying, stable career.  I was a high performer at work, ate a healthy pescatarian diet, enjoyed ladies nights with a close circle of friends, dated the "right" men, and worked out  4-5 times per week (including weight training to promote and maintain bone mass, of course).  I traveled up to 85% of the time for work, maintained a full social calendar, and continued to strive for the next great thing on my list of things I "had to" accomplish (i.e. an even more fabulous apartment in San Francisco, a promotion, more lean body mass).  Then, in November of 2010, I burned out.

One Sunday afternoon, as I sat watching "Elf", the floor dropped out from under me.  I suddenly felt as if I'd been hurled off the top of a roller coaster; my stomach lurched, my heart started pounding, and my extremities went numb.  I never even took Advil if I could avoid it, but I was so scared that I headed to the ER where I remember telling the nurse, "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I think I'm dying."  The hours I spent as the panic attack was diagnosed were the scariest of my life.  Every time the monitor changed color, I was sure it meant that my heart had stopped and I begged my boyfriend to fetch the doctor.  I sat helpless on the hospital bed bargaining for my life.  Some thoughts I remember having:

"None of what I've gotten myself so stressed out about (i.e. the salary, the "success") matters."
"I've wasted my time and I haven't helped anyone."
"What if one of my loved ones ends up like this without anyone there?"
"I'm not ready."
"I want one chance to eat pizza and to enjoy it without mentally punishing myself... and now I can't.  I wasted my life's pizza."

I attempted to return to my normal routine Monday morning, but I struggled with chest pain and other physical symptoms for months.  In June 2011, I quit my job and began the process of figuring out what to do next.  I was 34 and in full-fledged third-of-life crisis!