Getting Along with Your Middle-Aged Self
Born in 1980, now 45 years old.
Fewer friends, but happier than before.
To be honest, I hardly have any friends now. My LINE rarely pings, Facebook and Instagram interactions are almost non-existent, and my phone stays quiet all day. Occasionally, it rings, but it's either a delivery or a telemarketing call. If someone had told me in my 20s or 30s, "This is what you'll become," I would have thought—how pitiful!
But now that I've reached this age, I've realized that what truly exhausts me has never been work, but rather ineffective socializing and forced friendships.
I used to be afraid of being labeled "unsociable." When colleagues invited me to dinner, even though I just wanted to go home, shower, and relax, I forced myself to go. When relatives organized last-minute gatherings, I would reluctantly show up even if I didn't want to. It felt like not showing up meant there was something wrong with me.
Happy moments had to be performed for others, while sad moments left me with no one to confide in. Back then, I was surrounded by people, yet felt incredibly lonely inside.
Now, my life looks like this: I don't initiate dinner plans, and I'm used to not being invited. I rarely interact with relatives, fulfilling only the necessary courtesies and responsibilities. I don't play mahjong or group games, dislike gossip, and avoid gatherings where drinking excessively is considered enthusiasm. If I can avoid it, I do. It might sound cold, but only I know—this comfort was hard-earned after countless moments of emotional exhaustion and disappointment.
I've started letting go of unsuitable circles, muting groups that make me anxious, and dedicating time to things that genuinely improve myself.
When I'm alone, I often do three things. The first is slow jogging and spinning. I no longer aim for intense sweating, extreme challenges, or impressive results. I don't need to prove how disciplined or capable I am. When I slow jog, my steps are small, my pace is slow—slow enough to hear my own breathing, slow enough for my mind to finally quiet down. It's not "exercise"; it's more like accompanying myself on a walk.
Spinning, on the other hand, has a different rhythm. There's no competition, no need for conversation. With headphones on and resistance adjusted, the world narrows down to the spinning pedals and the emotions being cycled through—sometimes stress, sometimes unspoken frustration. By the time I'm drenched in sweat, the burdens in my heart feel a little lighter.
The second thing is watching shows and playing video games. When I was younger, I thought these were a waste of time. But at this age, I've realized that people need moments where they don't have to think or produce, but simply receive. Watching shows allows me to temporarily step out of all my roles, to stop pretending to be a mature, sensible, and composed adult. Laughing, crying, and feeling emotions through someone else's story reminds me that I'm still alive and capable of feeling.
Video games, too. Not for competition or proving skills, but for the clarity of goals and immediate feedback for every effort. That simple "do it, and you'll see results" is rare in real life.
The third thing is traveling and digital nomadism. I no longer want to tie my life to a fixed office, routine, or city. With just a laptop and stable internet, I can wake up in a different place, have breakfast on a new street, and work under a different sky. Travel is no longer about checking off attractions but immersing myself in a different rhythm of life. Sitting in a café in an unfamiliar city, writing, working, or daydreaming—no one knows me, and no one expects me to be anyone. In that moment, I am simply myself.
Digital nomadism isn't about escaping reality; it's about understanding that life doesn't have to follow a single path. As long as I can support and take care of myself, where I live doesn't really matter.
People often ask me, "Don't you feel lonely or bored being by yourself every day?" Honestly, I used to think so too. But now I understand—true loneliness is being in a crowd yet feeling like you don't belong anywhere.
In middle age, I've redefined my standards: it's not about how many friends I have, but whether I like the person I've become. A smaller circle is fine; compatibility matters more than appearances. Others' buzzing phones are their liveliness; my ability to thrive in quiet is my strength.
If you're also 40+ and finding yourself increasingly "unsociable," don't rush to doubt yourself. Maybe it's not that you lack friends, but that you've finally learned to be your own best companion. If you resonate with this, then perhaps we are kindred spirits.