Imagine a spaceship that has been flying through space for decades.
It’s well built, reliable. The first little dents and scratches in the hull are easy to polish out. Later, parts are replaced, patched, repaired. The ship keeps flying.
But eventually, the spare parts run out.
Then you improvise. With duct tape and spit, experience and hope. You know the spots where it creaks. You’ve learned how to trick the warning system when it starts blinking. And still: the first subsystems begin to fail. First one, then another. Not dramatically. Quietly, but permanently.
The spaceship doesn’t fall apart spectacularly.
It ages, slowly but steadily, inevitably. And one day, everyone on board knows, there will come a time when patching things up just won’t be enough anymore. Unless a solar flare or unexpected asteroid gets there first.
I often think about that image.
The body as a spaceship.
A lifespan as a journey through unknown space.
And about all the firsts, especially since becoming a parent.
First steps, first day of school, first love.
Yesterday, my oldest bonus daughter had her “Jugendweihe”. She looked beautiful and so grown-up. We were so proud.
And at some point, the lasts begin.
Many of them go unnoticed:
The last time I picked up my youngest daughter?
The last time my eldest crawled into my bed after a nightmare?
I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t mark those moments as special.
Other lasts, we feel more clearly.
The last day of school.
Goodbyes to grandparents who live far away.
The last hug with a particular person.
Farewells and transitions often blur.
Sometimes, “I’ll just do this less often” becomes “I’ll never do this again.”
Today is one of those days.
I didn’t run a half-marathon.
Not because I didn’t want to.
But because my back has been acting up for a few weeks and I couldn’t train enough.
I knew I would probably finish, but at the cost of a monstrous muscle ache and a nervous system that would punish me for days.
I used to just run. From a standing start. No problem.
Now I weigh things more carefully. I listen. I take care.
I’m still in that in-between stage, the one where I can tell myself:
“If I train more, I’ll be able to do it again.”
But I can also see it, out there on the horizon: Day X.
The day I’ll realize: It’s not happening, even with training.
The day the spaceship won’t respond anymore, not because I gave up, but because it’s simply grown too old for that particular flight.
I hope that day is still a long way off.
But I know it’s coming.
And until then?
As long as energy flows, systems function, and the controls still respond to my commands, I want to seek out new firsts.
Gather new memories.
Live new stories. And look back with gratitude on the treasure chest of last times, even when they come with a pang of longing.
Acceptance and letting go — as conscious, kind flight maneuvers.
So glad you’re here. 💛
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