This week, I spent the afternoon with one of the wisest members of our community. She’s in her mid-80s now—sharp, gracious, calm—and the kind of mature that can only come from living through decades of both beauty and heartbreak. Not wise in the performative sense. Not the kind of person who dominates a room with her opinion. But wise in the way that truly matters: unflappable, rooted, generous with silence.
I’m not sure I can adequately put into words how blessed I felt after sitting with her. Truly blessed. Not just for myself, but for my children, who get to grow up in a community where people like her still exist. People who have lived long enough to stop pretending, long enough to know what actually matters, and long enough to model a quieter kind of strength.
The irony is, I thought she was stopping by for me to help her. I assumed I’d offer a little guidance, maybe lighten her load. But I had no idea that the real gift being exchanged would come from her to me. It’s a gift I’ll never be able to repay.
Because what she gave me—without even trying—was perspective. The kind of perspective that doesn’t come from books or sermons or credentials. The kind of perspective that only a full life can offer.
I’m 44, and if I’m honest, I don’t yet know what it means to look back on a life with the clarity that only age can provide. But I could feel it in her words, in her laughter, in the lightness with which she carried even the hard memories. Time had done its work. She wasn’t clinging to the past. She wasn’t cataloging grievances. She wasn’t scoring old debates.
At one point, she looked at me and said something that stopped me cold: “By the time you reach your 80s, you don’t remember the arguments of your 40s. You may have thought they were worthwhile. Maybe some were. But I promise you—most weren’t. And as for the people you argued with? Their names? Their causes? You probably won’t remember those either.”
She said it gently. Not bitterly. Just matter-of-fact. And in that moment, something shifted in me.
Because I’m still in the thick of it. Still defending my convictions. Still spending too much time explaining myself to people who don’t listen and justifying decisions to those who don’t understand. Still staying up at night over things that I have no doubt I won’t remember.
And maybe that’s the point. The honor to have people in our lives who are far ahead of us on the journey—who can look back and wave us forward, saying, “You can drop that. You don’t need it where you’re going.”
It’s easy to forget that life is not a sprint. That it isn’t measured by who wins each argument or who “wins the room.” It’s measured over the long haul. And if that’s true—if life is a marathon—then I’m not wasting my energy on short-term races. I’m pacing myself for something much more meaningful.
And yes, when I reach my own mile marker 20—whatever that means in my life—you’d better believe I will have done everything in my power to leave the noise behind. The ego. The urgency. The people clinging to the shallow end of things. I’ll leave them in the dust.
If I die at 45, I’m certainly not letting you take my best years. And if, by chance, I make it to 85, I won’t remember your name. I won’t remember the argument. And I definitely won’t remember your grievance.
I say that without cruelty. It’s not a threat. It’s a choice. A choice to preserve my time and energy for the things that actually matter.
We all make mistakes. God knows I’ve made my share. And I will make more. That’s what makes us human. But Judaism doesn’t ask us to be flawless. It asks us to be honest. The tradition of teshuvah—repentance—isn’t about shame or self-flagellation. It’s about responsibility. You name what was broken. You try to repair what you can. And then you move forward.
The person who demands more than that—who needs to see you grovel endlessly—isn’t seeking justice. They’re seeking power. And power plays have no place in the sacred work of repentance. That’s not maturity. That’s not adulthood. That’s playground politics.
The older I get, the more I see how exhausting—and fragile—some of these interpersonal dramas really are. Especially in Jewish communal life.
I think, is the greatest truth my elder friend gave me: decency is what lasts.
Not ego. Not charisma. Not applause. Not the last word.
Decency.
Do you show up? Do you take people seriously? Do you apologize when you mess up? Do you forgive when no one asks? Do you live in a way that radiates peace, not noise?
Life is short. We all know that. But what I’m learning is that it’s also too short to spend with people who don’t matter—people who drain your spirit, monopolize your calendar, and diminish your clarity. You don’t owe your presence to people who don’t respect your presence.
As I sat across from her, I realized I want to live in a way that brings me to that kind of peace. I want to be the one, decades from now, sitting with someone half my age, not giving advice but giving presence. I want to be so grounded in my own life that I can finally let go of everyone else’s noise.
And I want to remember that this wasn’t something I read in a book or learned from a lecture. It was a gift, given freely, from someone who has earned every ounce of wisdom she carries. A woman who has nothing to prove anymore—and yet still gives more than most of us who are just getting started.
So I’ll keep walking. I’ll keep running my race. But I’ll do it with a new kind of focus.
And when I hit mile 20, whenever that may be, I promise you: I will have left the noise behind. I will have left the distractions, the grudges, the fights, and the petty power plays in the dust.
Because this isn’t a sprint.
It never was.
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