Second Half

Carl Jung popularized the notion of “two halves” of our lives. His theory was that we spend the first half of our life navigating the outside world and developing a healthy ego, and the second half is spent turning inward, letting go of that ego. It is a time to find a deeper source of purpose, moving away from external validation to a deeper, internal meaning in life. The second half, he asserted, is triggered by some kind of crisis that leads to self-assessment and re-evaluation of life’s priorities. This crisis forces us to “forge an ego that does not break down when incomprehensible things happen.”

And pondering this notion feels fitting as I turn 48, the two halves of my life forever demarcated by that defining tragedy of my young life just days after my 24th birthday: my beautiful, vibrant, larger-than-life sister dead. Incomprehensible.

And how can it be? Have a I really lived half my life now without Cathy? For 24 years she was my sister, the person I shared my secrets and fears with, the friend I called when I had reason to celebrate, the one who knew all my stories and cared about the details, the one I fought with and laughed until I cried with. For 24 years now, she’s been the person I miss most in this world, the sister whose voice I can still remember, whose laugh no longer breaks into a cackle but whose stories can still fill me with laughter and joy – like the time in the Vegas airport, late to her flight that was already boarding when she turned to the stranger next to her and said with confidence, “take my bags and run with me!” I still smile thinking of the sound of her voice on the other end of the phone line, answering my call on a random Thursday night, telling her I was on my way over to watch The Real World with her. I can still feel that last hug outside my Prague apartment before a taxi swept her off to the airport to return home, the last time I saw her alive.

24 years is a long time to live without someone. It’s a long time for a family to walk around with a gaping whole in their hearts. It’s a long time to try to make sense out of the incomprehensible.

I was struck by the most incomprehensible thought the other day: everyday, from this day forward, I will have lived longer without Cathy than I did with her. That will never, ever, make sense to me. That life has just continued on, with both its beauty and its tragedy – that time did not stop when the rug was pulled out from under us – will never be something I can fully understand. The grief of it all remains an ever-present companion in my life, and I imagine it always will. AND I continue to cling ardently to the joy of my memories of her, of the life and experiences I got to share with her for the first half of my life. While I hope that I will get to live another 24 years, perhaps even another 24 after that, I will always think of those first 24 years as the first half of my life – the half before everything changed, the half when Cathy was more than just my memories of her, the half that will never be long enough.